The Sixth Move
by ShadowMajin
Summary: Sequel to The Ninth Circle. Gotham City is full of personal demons. When one man falls from grace, he decides to unleash his on the entire city. And no one will be spared.
1. Call Me The Penguin

Hey folk, ShadowMajin here with the second installment of my and Anonymous Void's Batman series. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

"_Welcome to Channel 6 News with Jack Ryder. I'm Jack Ryder and here are tonight's headlines. Tomorrow marks the eighth month anniversary of the Night of Ice, when Gotham's former vigilante Victor Fries attempted to freeze the city within a block of ice. A memorial service will be held in memory of those who lost their lives, including Channel 6's own, John Baker. Donations are requested to help the families of the victims and survivors._

"_In other news, the crime rate has dipped down nearly 5%, a first in forty years for the city. Much of this can be credited to Commissioner James Gordon, who has gone through a record number of police firings in an attempt to replace corrupt police officers with new policemen and women. With these new officers, a crackdown on crime has shocked the criminal underworld._

"_However, others claim that this drop cannot be completely credited to the new Gotham City Police Department. Many are saying this is the work of the vigilante, the Batman, who is widely known for standing up to Victor Fries during the Night of Ice. While the number of arrests of criminals with various injuries has increased, there has been a notable decrease in the appearance of the vigilante in the last few days. This has led to some believing that the Batman has given up fighting for the city._

"_In related news, a double homicide has been reported in downtown Gotham, at 5th and Chesney. According to sources, there is a strong belief that this is another in a long line of criminal activity perpetrated by the rise of a new organized crime outfit headed by a man simply known as the Penguin. Not much is known of the Penguin, other than his or her perchance for bird-related calling cards left at crime scenes. The GCPD is currently offering a $50,000 reward to anyone that has any information concerning the Penguin and his associates._

"_Now onto the World of Sports, with Bruce Timms. Bruce—"_

The television with Jack Rider's profile was replaced by a fellow colleague's, which was ignored by the various officers of the law as they scrambled about the station. There was an unprecedented flurry of activity, the likes of which hadn't been seen in a long time. Like the news had said, there had been changes in the department's infrastructure; there were new faces replacing some old ones, though a few of those could still be found here and there.

For example, Harvey Bullock's...area was in a perpetual mess, yet somehow it was an orderly disorder. Unless you counted all the used styrofoam cups that had the barest traces of coffee left in them and pages upon pages of papers stacked sporadically about the desk, the entire thing was a mess. Yet, in Bullock's words, they were unimportant.

Meanwhile, symbolically on the other side of the room was the more clean desk of Essen and it seemed like cleanliness was contagious—at least on her end. In the middle of it all, there were experienced and inexperienced officers, most of whom were homicide, but there were several from robbery and narcotics sprinkled about. This precinct specialized in homicide, though a portion of the building was reserved solely for organized crime.

In fact, recently there had been quite a bust. Even those words couldn't accurately describe how big it was. It was one for the record books, that was for sure, and that may have been a big reason why there was currently so much activity. Not only had they managed to grab over five hundred tons of cocaine, but they had managed to nab many of the distributors along with evidence that could be used against their bosses. Specifically, it was Stromwell, a one-time untouchable mob boss who had managed to survive Fries' vigilantism and had expanded his empire soon afterwards.

Not for long, it seemed. They had Stromwell and they had him bad. All of these officers were working to make sure that not only would it all hold up in court, but that none of of Stromwell's lawyers could get it thrown out. There were warrants being written up for everything under the sun, ranging from arrest to searches.

There was no rest for the wicked and it was up to them to keep up.

That task had become somewhat easier. The problems of corruption were not gone and probably would never be. Still, the shape of this Gotham City Police was better than it had been eight months ago. It could even be said it was in better shape than it was twenty years ago.

The commissioner was not very picky about that. Gordon cared more about the results and achieving them. So long as there was something being done, he could find some satisfaction in it. It could all be better admittedly, but he still had some time to do it.

Some time being the key words here. He didn't know how much longer he would be in this post, so he was going to do the best that he could while he was still here. Hamilton Hill had been replaced as Mayor not too long ago and his replacement was eager to put his people in key positions, which included the police commissioner. Still, even if his stint as commissioner was short-lived and everything went back to the way it was, at the very least Gordon could said he had done his best and that for a moment he had accomplished something.

It still didn't mean that he liked his phone ringing off the hook. That thing was always going off nowadays. So long as it wasn't the mayor, a sign that crap was heading his way, then he could handle whoever it was on the phone.

Ruefully, he recalled a time a few months ago when the phone rang noticeably less. He wouldn't trade for that period of time; it was considerably better that he was getting consistent calls. Made it seem like things were getting done now.

"This is Gordon," he spoke into the receiver's phone, short, to the point, but always with a tone that didn't put someone on edge. At least initially.

"_Ah Commissioner, it's so nice to speak with you. It is a first, 'fraid, but better late than never, eh?"_

Gordon frowned. This was someone he didn't recognize. The accent may have been a giveaway there, but it didn't get him closer to discovering the purpose of this call. "Who is this?" he asked.

"_Oh, where are my manners? 'Fraid I can't give you my real name since you're more than likely tracin' this call. Word of advice, friend: don't bother. Howe'er, let me say that we happen to have a mutual interest, you and I."_

"Mutual interest? I'm afraid I don't follow," the elderly man replied with feigned interest. He was involved with too much work to bother with cautious callers and riddles. "I'm going to have to ask you to get off the line. I don't have time to be dealing with prank calls."

"_But you see, this ain't a prank call. Far from it. Here, have a listen."_

There was a slight pause before the commissioner heard the word, "_D-daddy?"_

Gordon's blood turned ice cold as he bolted up straight in his seat. His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning white from the strain. "Barbara?" he asked, his voice soft, but easily heard.

"_I believe I have your attention, right friend?"_

He swallowed. "You do."

"_Then listen up so we can get down to business. I have someone that's important to you; someone you wouldn't want to see bein' hurt. Now, I'm a man that don't like hurtin' lil girlies, but if I get pushed the right way, I can't say lil Barbara here is gonna like it._"

"What do you want?" He was not in the mood for this cloak and dagger shit. Whoever was on the other end was messing with his little girl. Indeed, he agreed that he didn't want Barbara hurt. But he wasn't going to talk around the issue, not as long as his daughter was in danger.

"_To the point I see. Well, let's get to the point. I want some professional courtesy that your fine department once lavished on my competitors. I understand you're not a man to be bought, so I took that pesky part out o' the equation. You don't have to pay me a cent, just as long as you look the o'her way on some things."_

"And how do I know you will keep your word?" Gordon demanded, his voice raising slightly. "How do I know that you won't hurt her anyway?"

"'_Cause I'm a gentlemen. My word is my bond, unlike some of the riftraft in this town. For example, I promise that if you put your lil nose in my business, the next time you see your daughter will be in pieces. Catch my drift?_"

"I do. That's not what I want to know." His mind was racing, trying to think of something, anything, but was constantly coming up blank. "When will I get to see my daughter again?"

"_It depends entirely on you, Commissioner."_

"You're not answering my question."

"_Once I feel an understandin' has been reached between us and not a second 'fore. Don't worry, I'll make sure your favorite redhead is taken care of. So long as you cooperate, I won't harm a red hair on her pretty lil head."_

"And how will I know what is your business and what isn't?" he asked. Even now, he could feel that he was stalling. Stalling for what remained questionable. Was it time? An idea? A solution of any kind? He didn't know…

There was a loud chuckle. "_You're a sharp one, I'll give you that. It's somethin' I admire so long as it doesn't get in my way. Believe me when I say this, you'll know my business 'fore you e'er take a breath. It'll be instinct between you and_ I. _And since we're goin' to be best o' friends, I suppose you__ can call me by the name the media's given me. I'm sure you know it by now._"

"There's been several names floating around and none that I know of who...have your certain way of speaking."

"_Careful Commissioner, one wrong word and you'll be hearin' sounds out of your lil girlie you ain't want her to_ make." There was pause before the voice continued, "_You can call me the Penguin—e'erybody else does._"

The call ended. Just like that. A simple click and all the commissioner could hear was a damning dial tone. He remained where he was for several minutes, staring straight ahead and continuing to hold the phone up to his ear in some vain hope that the call would resume.

The moment he finally placed the phone back down, he slumped back in his seat, hands over his face.

He had known taking on the criminal underworld wasn't going to be a nice affair. It was going to get dirty and so much more worse before any of it got better. Nevertheless, it had not occurred to him that Barbara would be made to face the repercussions of his actions. Maybe there had been some part of him that warned him that she would be made a target, but…

No. No, he wasn't going to take this. If this Penguin thought he was going to endanger his family and not expect some blowback, he was about to find that he wasn't the kind of man who was going to roll over.

He shoved himself out from behind his desk and stomped his way out of his office. He didn't take any note of how the department was behaving more like a police department as he called out for everyone's attention. "Everyone, listen up! Quiet down now!"

The department fell silent, one officer at a time until everyone was looking at him. Sure that he had all of their attention, he nearly bellowed out, "I want everyone tracking down the Penguin. I want him brought in cuffs and I want it done today. No excuses."

"Whoa, Com'mish, where's this all coming from?" Bullock spoke up.

Gordon glanced at the sergeant before staring out at the rest of the force. "Since the moment that bastard called me up and told me he had my daughter. I don't care if we have to turn Gotham inside out, I want him found and I want him found _now_!"

* * *

The familiar chirping of bats echoed against the cave walls, bouncing off of rocky surfaces and metal platforms. The light of the computer monitor cast out an eerie green glow, bathing Bruce Wayne as he sat in his chair. His armored suit was on, new and improved, and it had been servicing him well. The only thing that was missing was his mask as it laid on the computer table.

On the computer screen was the image of a newspaper, the front page of the Central City Gazette. Right in the middle of the page was a picture of a thin man in a red suit, a yellow lightning bolt logo situated in the middle of his chest. The man had his hands on his hips, a smirk on his face, looked quite proud of himself. The bolded headline above the picture proudly proclaimed **FASTER THAN A SPEEDING BULLET**.

There were other stories on the page, such as a lawsuit against a local business, a sex scandal concerning a teacher and a student, and a review of a magical show, but the man in red spandex was obviously the focus.

"Hero worshiping, Sir?"

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched up into a smirk, followed by him saving the image to a file. "Not exactly, Alfred. Just keeping myself abreast with the latest updates."

"Of course, Sir. I believe this is the second hero to show himself?"

Bruce nodded his head. In the months since Fries' attack on Gotham, there had been sudden appearances of men with curious abilities. Take the man in red from Central City—as far as anyone knew and what the young man boasted, he had the power to run at high speeds. He could literally outrun a bullet without breaking a sweat and promptly apprehend the shooter within a second.

Then there was the many appearances of a "blue angel" out in Metropolis. From eyewitnesses, they described a man in a blue suit and red cape that could fly. Some had even claimed the blue angel could left semi-trucks like they were nothing. So far, the Metropolis and Central City heroes had been protecting the citizenry, to which each population had gratefully accepted both as their own.

Bruce couldn't say he was happy with the situation. Perhaps his view was colored by Fries' actions, but he was weary of these "heroes" as they were being called. These powers of theirs could easily create another Night of Ice in their respective cities, though how much damage they could cause was indeterminable. It would be wise to keep an eye on them for the time being.

Which was a reason—not the reason—why he had been in Central City of late. He had even been lucky enough to see this red-clad man, this Flash character, in action. He was definitely raw and very, _very_ immature, but his heart was in the right place. Further research would be needed, but he had other matters to attend to.

Instead of answering Alfred's inquiry, Bruce decided to move the conversation elsewhere. "How has Gotham been while I've been gone?"

Alfred immediately went with the change in subject. "No worse than usual, Sir. The media has been asking where you've been, which I believe has emboldened some of the more cowardly of the criminal element."

The younger man remained stoic, though he felt the urge to wince. It had been a risk taking off as he had, but he had made a commitment that he was determined to follow through with. All this meant was that he had to make up for lost time. "What has the GCPD been up to?"

"I believe they had a major bust earlier in the evening," the butler answered. "Drugs and other various narcotics."

That was good news. Back when he had started his night-time activities, the dark-haired man doubted the police would have committed to such an operation. Gordon had been doing a good job at getting the department under his control. This was just another sign that things were beginning to turn around.

Still, that didn't mean he was completely ready to trust the new GCPD recruits. It was because of that he had taken on the endeavor of bugging each and every phone in the precinct to make sure the blatant corruption of law enforcement of the past didn't make a comeback. Accessing the computer, he checked the current activity going on in the department, finding several of the phones in use. Looking at them, it was when he caught sight of Gordon's actively that piqued his curiosity. While he was more inclined to leave the commissioner's line alone, there had been threats made to him over the line in recent months. Those were calls he took seriously and made it a point to root out the caller. Accessing the line, he waited for the audio to kick in through the speakers.

"—_I have your attention, right friend?" an accented voice spoke._

Bruce frowned at that. He hadn't heard that voice before.

Gordon's then came over the speakers. "_You do._"

The voice came on again. "_Then listen up so we can get down to business. I have someone that's important to you. Someone you wouldn't want to see being hurt. Now, I'm a man that don't like hurtin' 'lil girlies, but if I get pushed the right way, I can't say 'lil Barbara here is gonna like it."_

"Computer, trace the call," Bruce instantly order, his face scowling as he did so. A normal trace by the police would take up to ninety seconds, assuming the person they were tracing didn't have countermeasures. The young man's supercomputer could do it in half the time, without running into tracing countermeasures, or at the very least overcoming them.

It took ten seconds before he hit interference, to which he instantly began typing into the computer commands to override the countermeasure. Looked like the call was being bounced around different relays and...there was a signal jammer too. The computer would make quick work of the relays, but that jammer would be a problem. First he needed to focus on the jamming signal, locate it, and then send a counter-frequency to override it.

"_I understand you're not a man to be bought, so I took that pesky part out o' the equation. You don't have to pay me a cent, just as long as you look the o'her way on some things,"_ the voice spoke, almost mockingly. The speaker seemed to like the sound of his own voice, which would definitely keep him on the line long enough for the trace to go through. Gordon just needed to keep him talking…

"_And how do I know you will keep your word?"_ Gordon retorted angrily. His tone raised an octave. The situation was clearly stressing him, not that the vigilante could blame him. "_How do I know that you won't hurt her anyway?"_

A sharp _beep!_ went off, signalling the jammar had been overcome. Letters and numbers flashed over a digital map of Gotham, a thick line criss-crossing over it. The picture would move down the line and stop at various points, usually a second before moving on. Those had to be the relays. Now where was the—

Suddenly, a red crosshair appeared on the map, a short alarm sounding off. Bruce immediately stood up from his chair, staring the icon down. There, just off the riverfront in the Narrows. Grabbing his mask off of the table, he pulled it over his head and situated it. He then hit a button on his gauntlet and the eyes lit up a blue color before turning white.

"Sir, would now be a good time to test out the recording function of the cameras we installed in the lens?" Alfred spoke up.

"I'll leave that to you," the Batman said before spinning around and walking towards his car. "Activate and begin recording as soon as you can."

"Yes, Sir. Do be careful out there."

"Don't worry about me. The only people that should be worried are the ones that kidnapped Barbara Gordon. Send Gordon the address. I'll meet him there."

Almost as if on cue, the voice announced himself to the cave. "_You can call me the Penguin—e'erybody else does."_

The Penguin—he had been looking into that guy for some time now. The man had appeared out of nowhere not too long ago and was dead set on filling in the void left by Falcone, Moxon, and Maroni. He was careful, always sure to use people that wouldn't reveal his true identity, mostly because they had never met him. He also had a bit of a cruel streak, leaving murdered families and broken men in his wake. So far it seemed his tactics were working and he had established a foothold in the city.

However, this Penguin man had made a huge mistake if he thought he could get away with kidnapping the Commissioner's daughter. Batman would make sure the mobster would come to regret that display of arrogance and vanity.

* * *

The voice of the Penguin is being modeled off of the one in the Arkham City/Origin games. I must admit, I hated the little guy in those, but he grew on me, especially that Cockney accent. I did my best to get the flow of it here and I think it turned out well.


	2. As A Father

If the station had been busy before, the level of activity right now was completely unprecedented. Right now, Gordon was not a man to be crossed. He wasn't just a commissioner, or a cop—he was a father and a pissed off one at that.

He didn't care if he ran the whole department into the ground going after the Penguin. He was not going to let this man cross a line that had never been crossed before. Even in their heyday, bosses like Falcone and Maroni hadn't gone after children. If they had a problem with you, you were the one they took it up with. Incredible to think, surely, but that's how it had been.

The Penguin had taken things to a new level. This had to be addressed by the GCPD and it had to be done successfully. If the Penguin was allowed to get away with this, it was not only going to open a flood door with who knows how many copycats, it was going to set a new precedent. Every cop's child would be in danger.

On top of it all, it was his daughter, Barbara. It went deeper than a person he had never met. Much deeper. If anything happened to her, there would be no place this Penguin could hide. Whether he knew it or not, this bastard had made enemies with the wrong man.

The door to his office was open and the din of countless officers flooded in. Whenever someone was unlucky enough to walk by, the commissioner would order them in and demand what the status of their progress was. It was always the same, there wasn't much. Too little progress in too much time, in Gordon's opinion.

Every minute that Barbara was in that lunatic's possession was a minute too long.

It took him a moment, but he realized that his phone was buzzing. Now why was it doing it that? If someone was calling him, it would ring...but it buzzed when it received texts. That's how Barbara had set it up for him. She was always pretty good with these contraptions. So who was texting him?

Well, whoever it was seemed to be pretty close to him since he never gave out his number to random people. Checking the message, he found an address staring back at him: _1527 Fowler Boulevard. Penguin._ Gordon froze as he stared at the screen. Was this the Penguin sending him a location? Had to be. Looking up the screen to see the sender, he was surprised to see the word UNKNOWN instead. Either the Penguin didn't want to leave any possibility for anyone to track him, or someone else had sent the message. It was more likely the first one since there wasn't anyone around that would just give away the criminal's location.

Then again, he had seen ransom notes before and every one of them always ordered the receiver to not involve the cops. There was a distinct lack of that here. So was this really the Penguin? Who would want the police commissioner to even know his location? Someone was really earning their good samaritan points with this. In Gotham though, those people were few and far in between, not counting the Bat—

Gordon's eyes widened. Immediately, he accessed his computer, typing the address into the map function Barbara had showed him. The moment the map appeared, a small dot blinked on a place in the Narrows, close to the waterfront.

This was it, this had to be where the Penguin was hiding out. Now was the time to act. He grabbed his trench coat and snatched up his revolver, checking to make sure it was loaded before marching out of his office.

"Listen up!" he roared into the racket beyond his office. "A tip came in! 1527 Fowler Boulevard. I want every available unit from patrol cars, undercover, and SWAT all down there and I want them there now! Get to it!"

* * *

The room was o' substandard quality. Really, there were no redeemable features of it other than it served its purpose as an office. Old, rotting furniture covered the creaky, wooden floor. Tonight, the room was crowded with muscled blokes, more than he usually liked in his office, but this night had a special guest.

Tied to a wooden chair that had seen better days last century was the young Barbara Gordon. She was a pretty lil thing, young, vivacious, and a head of long red hair. You didn't see too many girlies pull off that colour. Bit o' shame that it'd be dyed a different red soon enough.

"You got yourself a mighty fine daddy, lil girlie," Oswald Cobblepot spoke, directin' his words at the girl. "I'm gonna have me a merry ol' time breakin' him."

The Gordon girl made a muffled sound, the gag in her mouth makin' it difficult for her to talk. Oswald preferred that in a girl; they were best seen and never allowed to talk. Howe'er, her frightened blue eyes were what drew him in. It was an artform to draw fear out of people and it was always so delicious when a person was terrified out o' their mind.

Leanin' back in his cracked leather chair behind an agin' desk, Oswald continued to gloat to the girl. "Ya know, it's nothin' personal, just business. If your daddy had been a team player to start with, none o' this would have to happen. See, I told him you'd get hurt if he didn't play ball and I don't think he seemed convinced on that. Now if there's one thing Oswald Cobblepot ain't, it's a liar. I got to show your ol' man that I speak the truth."

At this he reached into an open drawer o' the desk and pulled out a large knife, settin' it down on top o' the desk in plain view o' the captive. "I'm not a ruffian like some o' the people in this town; I can be quite generous once ya get to know me. So here's the deal: I'm gonna let you decide which o' your fingers gets cut off and sent to daddy dearest. I'll give ya a couple minutes to decide, but if you don't, I'll start counting piggies."

Oswald nearly licked his lips in delight as he watched the Gordon girl stare back at him with wide eyes, her body tremblin' in her seat. If there was one thing he learned on the streets o' London, it was to make—

"Eh, boss?" one o' the thugs spoke up, breakin' Oswald's reminincin'. "You might want to come see this."

"What are you blubberin' about?" the squatty man demanded as he straightened up in his seat. He didn't appreciate it when people interrupted his fun.

The thug in question looked over to him, the only one standin' by the window. It was then that Oswald noticed light was flashin' through the window in reds and blues. "There's a whole lot of cops out there."

Oswald pushed himself out o] his chair and onto his stubbly legs. His head barely stood above the desk as he waddled over to the window. Yeah he was short and a lot o' blokes thought that meant he was an easy target back in the day. None o' them were alive right not to tell ya how wrong they were.

As Oswald reached the window, he looked out o' it and paled at the sight he saw. There were cop cars everywhere with blue-dressed pigs runnin' about. Further back were several black SWAT trucks with men pourin' out o' it. Though he couldn't see too well from here, everyone looked as if they were packin' heat.

"What the bloody hell is this?!" the Penguin roared. "Where did those cops come from? How'd they know we was here?"

Many of the thugs were lookin' at the sight as well, some o' them trembling with fear. "I've never seen this many cops before," one o' them said. "It's like they're ready to declare war or something!"

Oswald swung himself around, colour returnin' to his face as he barked out, "I want e'eryone at their battle stations, you hear me? These pigs want a fight, well I'll give 'em a fight! $10,000 for e'ery pig that's killed and $25,000 for any SWAT. If anyone hits the com'ishner, it's $100,000!"

That got e'eryone's attention. Instantly the room was filled with activity as men were hustlin' to their weapons. There, that was more like it. Alright pigs, Oswald Cobblepot was ready for—

A loud groanin' sound was suddenly made, causin' e'eryone to pause. Oswald looked up to the ceilin' with a frown. He ain't ever heard that sound 'fore and he'd been in this buildin' for awhile.

It was then the ceilin' collapsed, panelin', wood, and styrofoam fallin' to the floor. There were panicked shouts in response, and unfortunately for a couple of the blokes, they got caught up in the fallin' debris. Howe'er, there was somethin' else there, somethin' dark that landed on the men. Eyes widenin', Oswald stared at the black mass that stood crouched on the floor, starin' at him with unblinking white eyes.

* * *

The Batman gazed at the men in front of him. They were all frozen in place as they stared right back at him in shock. Two were currently lying beneath him, knocked out by the collapsed ceiling. Off to his right was a girl tied to a chair, her back to him—Gordon's daughter. Most of the men were street-level thugs—six in total—and no further interest other than being obstacles. It was the short, round man towards the back that the vigilante focused on. The man's pointed nose twitched nervously the longer the Bat stared at him.

This had to be the Penguin.

"What are you doin', you blokes!" the Penguin suddenly shouted in a heavily accented voice—Cockney from the sound of it—pointing a stubby finger at the Batman. "Get 'em!"

That broke the daze the thugs were in as the began withdrawing their guns. In an instant, the Batman threw open his cape and unleashed a barrage of bat-shaped shuriken. Each shuriken arched through the air at different trajectories, striking the men on their armed hand. Cries of pain erupted from the thugs as they dropped their weapons and grasped at their injured hands.

Taking advantage of this, the vigilante dashed towards the girl, running behind her and at the wall. Leaping, he held a bent leg out in front of him and his foot made contact with the sheetrock. Pushing off with his leg, he launched himself through the air at the closest thug, a hand drawn back in a fist. With a grunt, he threw his metal-reinforced gloved fist and slammed it into the man's face, his opponent crumbling to the floor immediately. That was one down for the count.

Landing on the floor, Batman turned his head to the next man, who was staring at him with terror-clouded eyes. Leaping at him, the dark-clad vigilante crossed his striking hand across his chest and swung it out, backhanding the thug across his face. The blow caused his opponent to jerk to the side, spit flying from his mouth. Yet, the Bat wasn't done with him as he grabbed his foe by his wrist and yanked it back and out. With his other hand, he shoved it right in the man's armpit while rotating his grip on the wrist. Twisting his body around, he lifted the thug off the floor and threw him through the air and at one of his comrades. The thug slammed into his friend, knocking them both to the floor.

Reaching to this belt, the Batman pulled out a mess of cords, each attached to a metal ball on one end and connected to each other on the other, and immediately began twirling it. Finding his next target, he threw the spinning bola at him, watching in satisfaction as the weapon wrapped around the surprised thug until the balls began slamming into his body, one of them hitting him right in the face and knocking him out.

As the unconscious thug fell to the floor, the Batman turned his sights to the other men, the two on the ground climbing to their feet. However, the dark-clad man felt something hit him in the face, causing his head to jerk to a side. That seemed to cause everyone to stop what they were doing and stare.

Slowly, Batman turned his head back and saw one of the thugs had closed in on him and successfully landed a punch. The man's arm was still extended and he seemed confused as to what to do next. The vigilante just looked at him before he growled.

* * *

Emerging from his car, Gordon headed straight for the SWAT vans. He wanted a plan of how they were going to breach the alleged hideout as well as emphasize that there was a non-combatant within needing to be rescued.

Lethal force _was_ going to be authorized.

"Get those lights on!" he hollered towards technicians setting up spotlights, pointing at the building in question as the target. "I want that place so lit up that it you would think it was midday. Move it!"

He hadn't taken his eyes off the SWAT team leader, Branden, he was making his way to. Without waiting for a greeting, he demanded, "What's the plan, Branden?"

"We have snipers on the roofs here, here, and over there," Branden explained, gesturing with an arm to the various locations around them. "We're trying to get some men on the roof of the target itself so we can come in through the windows on upper floor. I have a team moving around back and another preparing to go in through the front."

"When can you have this all ready?" the commissioner demanded.

"Five more minutes, ten tops," the brown-haired man answered.

"Tell your men that lethal force is authorized," Gordon said, ignoring the startled look Branden gave him. The SWAT team leader didn't voice his surprise, if anything the idea was appealing to him with every passing second. The commissioner pretended to ignore the fact that he had just did the equivalent of giving the man an early Christmas present. "Make sure your men know that there is a hostage in there and to do whatever is necessary to make sure she—that they are recovered safely."

"Yes, Sir," Branden nodded, picking up his radio to issue the order.

Turning his eyes back on the Penguin's hideout, his heart pounding in his chest from the violence that was about to occur, Gordon could only wait until—

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

—a man crashed out of a window, arms and legs thrashing about as he fell through the air. The commissioner could only watch as the man landed right on top of police car as shattered glass rained down on him, unable to take his eyes off the sight for a moment.

Despite all the noise out here, you could still hear the cries of men shouting and sounds of violence leaking out from the building.

Both Gordon and Branden glanced at each other, giving identical shocked looks. "What the hell is going on in there?" he wondered.

* * *

With another thug down, the Batman launched himself at the two men close to each other. Both of them let out screams as he landed right in front of them. Shooting at his hands, the vigilante grabbed each man by the side of their heads and slammed them into the others, a sickening crack echoing throughout the room. Releasing his hold, he let them drop to the floor in another heap.

As he turned his eyes to the last thug, his eyes widened before he dashed to his left. A gunshot roared a moment later. During all the commotion, the man had managed to get his gun back and was now shooting at him—terrific. But this was only a minor bump in the fight.

Reaching to his belt, he pulled out another bat-shaped shuriken. As he took another step, he flung his arm out and sent the projectile flying through the air as the gun continued to fire. As luck would have it, one end of the shuriken struck the gun in the barrel, embedding it in the hole. The thug didn't seem to realize this as he fired the weapon again. Due to the barreling being plugged up, the gun exploded in his hand, causing him to scream in pain as he held his newly-mangled appendage.

Instantly, the Batman flew at the thug, both hands clasped over his head. With a war cry, he swung the double-fist down, jackhammering the man on his head. His opponent dropped to the floor in a heap.

Silence filled the room then. Carefully searching the room, the Batman couldn't find any other threats. The only person he saw was Barbara Gordon, who was staring at him with wide blue eyes. Posture relaxing, the vigilante turned his body to fully face the bounded girl.

It was then he noticed her eyes dart to a side. That was the only sign he got that something wasn't right and he instinctively dove to his right. A loud roar erupted as pieces of the wall exploded out into the room. Rolling over his back and onto his feet, the Batman kept himself in a crouch, primed for the next threat.

Standing in front of the desk was Cobblepot, a long black umbrella in his hands. A trail of smoke was wafting from the end pointed towards the dark-clad man. "Don't you worry your lil batty head," the short man grunted, "I'll get ya with the next shot." Holding onto the umbrella handle with one hand, he had the other beneath the fabric of the umbrella. In one motion, he opened the umbrella, an audible click reminiscent of a cocking shotgun was made, and then closed the canopy down. So that was the source of the blast.

Hand reaching into his belt, Batman pulled out a bat-shaped shuriken and sent it flying at the Penguin. The projectile arced high into the air, aiming to come down on its target. Tilting up the umbrella, Cobblepot instantly fired his weapon, blowing up the shuriken in one shot. "Like shootin' skeet," he arrogantly remarked, before he re-cocked the umbrella.

By the time the canopy had closed once more, Batman was on him. Using the open umbrella as cover, he had closed the distance between the two men and was at the desk by the time the stretcher was deactivated. With his left forearm, he blocked the shaft of the weapon, pointing it away from him and the Gordon girl; with his right, he slammed his drawn fist into the shorter man's mouth, sending him flying backwards and over the desk with a pained cry. The umbrella came out of the Penguin's grasp the moment he crashed on the floor, both of his hands shooting up to his mouth as he cradled his jaw gingerly.

Jumping upon and off the desk, the Batman came to a stop right in front of the criminal. He could see some blood trickling between the man's fingers. "I...I think you broke some o' my freakin' teeth!" Penguin shouted through his hands.

Reaching down, the vigilante grabbed the crime boss by his collar and hauled him up into the air. A few feet separated the smaller man from the floor and his dangling legs. With a fist drawn back, the Batman growled, "That's not all I'm going to break."

* * *

The scene was chaotic. Police and SWAT were moving in and out of some grungy-looking warehouse, every once and awhile bringing out a badly beaten man. Others were setting up the usually barricades to keep people away from the scene.

And it was behind one of those barricades that Vikki Vale stood, the fallen star of Gotham. It had been a long eight months since she was considered the toast of the town and she had been fighting tooth and nail to reach those heights ever since. Unfortunately her credibility had taken a hit when the Ice-Man had gone nuts and attacked the city. Even now her colleagues at the Star were giving her dirty looks, as if she had committed the crime herself.

What she wouldn't give to have things back the way they used to be.

At least on the bright side Lois Lane was out of the picture, high-tailing it to Metropolis the first chance she got. Vikki had a hard time not snarling every time she thought of that woman. At long last she was finally gone. With the sudden rise in juicy stories, she had feared Lane would have never left.

Unfortunately, she hadn't been able to get her hands on one of those juicy stories to restore her status. Harry hadn't seen fit to give her an assignment higher than dog shows, which were a complete waste of her time. How was she supposed to do good journalism if she was regulated to the dredges of reporting?

As of now she was off the clock, so she could be at this crime scene. Somewhere around here was a story to be made and she wanted to be the one that found it. The rest of the media circus was there too and no doubt they were thinking the same as her. That was fine though; if she could beat someone like Lane, she could beat these clowns.

With a camera strap rubbing against the back of her neck, Vikki began walking away along the barricade. Perhaps finding another spot would get her something. The amount of squad cars and vans hid quite a bit from sight. The clacking of her high-heeled shoes echoed to her ears as she moved around. There had to be something around her she could use, something that could—

_Well, hello…_

As she approached the corner of the building, she caught sight of a man walking towards a nearby alley. If she wasn't mistaken, that looked like Commissioner Gordon. Now why would he be going there of all places? Her nose twitching, Vale glanced around herself, seeing that she was alone where she stood. Ducking underneath the police barricade, she made her way towards the alley.

This might just be her story.

* * *

As much as he wanted to remain by his daughter side, Gordon still had a job to do. The scene needed to be cordoned off, the perpetrators needed to be placed in custody—not that they would be able to resist at the moment—evidence gathered, and generally have order maintained.

That was the price of being so high up the ladder.

To be on the safe side, Barbara would be transported to Gotham General to be checked out. Who knew what might have happened to her tonight in that toilet of a building? He didn't trust Cobblepot one bit, not after this stunt.

For the moment, outside of the hustle and bustle of activity, it was calm. Red and blue lights lit up the area and for once it seemed like his men were keeping the press away. If there was one job the Gotham City Police Department was able to do, even during the age of corruption that he was fighting against, it was managing the press. The more things change the more they...you know what, forget that.

Nevertheless, right now he wasn't issuing orders or overseeing the arrest of Cobblepot and his men. He was in the background until he was needed and what he felt he needed to do right now was take a step away and clear his head a bit. He had to remain calm and cool-headed when he wanted to be anything but. If he wasn't able to do his job properly, mistake he could potentially make could be used against him. He would be damned if the so-called Penguin got off because of some technicality he accidentally caused.

As he moved to an area of little activity, a hand jammed in a coat pocket and fiddling with the pack of cigarettes within it, something caught his eye. It was an alley, close to the crime scene yet far enough that the GCPD wasn't swarming around it. He couldn't say for sure, but he could have sworn he saw movement in there.

Taking a quick glance around, he headed towards the alley, making sure he had one hand on his firearm just in case.

As it turned out, he wouldn't need it.

"You all right?" he spoke to the dark figure of their city's resident vigilante.

"I should be asking you that," came the dark-clad man's reply.

"I believe I will be," he answered, slight resignation in his voice. "Thank you for what you did tonight."

"You don't have to thank me."

"As a father, I do," Gordon stated sharply. "Barbara's the only thing I have in this life that means anything to me. She's my daughter. I have to thank you if only for the fact that she seems to have come out of this unharmed. I don't know what I would do if anything happened to her." He held out his hand and waited for how the vigilante would react.

"I know you're not much for praise, but for everything you've done tonight, at least accept my gratitude," he almost ordered.

Silence fell down between the two until Gordon heard movement. From the darkness, the Batman emerged, seemingly larger than life. In fact, this was probably the first time the older man had actually seen him like this. All their other meetings had been at a distance, or on top of an A/C unit. With a sure hand, the vigilante accepted the commissioner's hand and gave it a shake, to which he reciprocated.

In an instant, the moment was shattered as a blinding light flashed. Whipping around, Gordon searched for the source of the light, finding nothing. His heart was pounding in his chest, feeling as if it was working its way up his throat and choking him. "What was that?" he demanded to know.

He searched for a moment, but was unable to find anything. It wasn't his imagination, he knew he had seen something, but what it could be…

Shaking his head, he turned back to the vigilante or would have if he was still there.

"You have got to stop doing that," he muttered accusingly to empty space as he adjusted his coat.

* * *

To anon: You're an Anarchy fan, aren't you? I kid, I kid, lol. I must say, you are very knowledgeable and passionate about the subject matter. You line under the Gotham City Impostors of how villains are in awe of Lex Luthor caught my attention. I don't know about awe, but I would say there is respect for him and what he's capable of doing. Someone like Darksaid or Megadon probably don't care who Luthor is, in fact the latter actually took over Luthor's mind at one point. To go into the Gotham rouge gallery, while that respect is there, I don't think any of them really care about Luthor, so long as they stay out of each other's way. I think the feeling is mutual in that regard. This isn't to belittle Luthor as he's proven to be able to take on Superman on multiple occasions and usually slip through Superman's grasp just when he thinks Luthor's cornered. You don't become Superman's top rival by being lucky or stupid. Anyways, I hope you keep reading and enjoying the story and thanks for reviewing.


	3. Lt Forbes

The Wayne Enterprises building loomed overhead, easily one of the tallest buildings in the city. Its logo was proudly displayed towards the top, informing all who owned the building. It was damn near a historical site the way some Gothamites carried on about it.

Standing across the street from the skyscraper was Matt Hagan, the most respected actor in Hollywood. There wasn't a script written that didn't find its way into his mailbox, a movie made that didn't base at least two of its characters off of him. He had been the highest-paid actor for two years straight six years ago, and then another set of two two years ago. He was not only a name, but the biggest of them all.

At least, that's the way things should still be. Instead, the man found himself staring at this dark building, most of his face covered in bandages. The last time he had been here, he had been savagely attacked by that ice freak. Even now, after all of these months, he could still feel the freak's hand grabbing onto his head and savagely bashing his skull against a sheet of ice, the agony of the bones fracturing tortured him as jagged pieces of ice tore his face apart. The oxycontin he was currently doping himself on only did so much for the pain he still felt.

In one moment his entire livelihood was threatened. His face was so iconic, there was no way a studio director or producer would put him in front of a camera, not with the way he looked now. There was no telling how much plastic surgery was necessary to repair the damage.

Just to compound everything, he wasn't exactly the best at managing money. Parties and a lavish lifestyle had ensured he had no savings. In fact, he had been living paycheck to paycheck for quite some time; it was the main reason he was constantly showing up in movies. Sure he had a bomb here and there, but the more he worked and put himself out there, the more money that came in and the more he could keep up the good times.

Tearing his eyes away from the Wayne building, he looked to a scrap of paper in his hand. It was a cut out of an article in a newspaper, one he had taken great care to keep intact. This article was his ticket to fix all his problems. Following what people were calling the Night of Ice, Bruce Wayne had announced that his company would help all those that had been affected by the attack. Cars were purchased for those that lost them, medical assistance given to those in need. Wayne Enterprises was even covering all of the bills incurred.

Matt licked his lips. That was the part he was most interested in. If Wayne would cover his expenses, he could have his face worked on by premier plastic surgeons and be back to the way he was in a matter of weeks. All his problems would be solved.

Looking both ways and seeing very little traffic, Matt took the first steps to his salvation, the sound of his expensive shoes echoing off the asphalt. He was dressed modestly if he did say so himself. Normal street clothes purchased from Neiman Marcus would assure that no one would notice who he was. Yes he had his face covered, but if he went strolling around in his usual wardrobe, everyone would know who he was and would then know just how hideously deformed he had become.

Reaching the other side of the street, he hurried towards the front doors and entered the dark building. The sight of the lobby filled his vision a moment later and a flood of horrific memories assaulted him. He could see the set spread out about the room, then ice covering the walls, statues of frozen men and women here and there, and then finally that walking refrigerator man destroying his face. The agony intensified in his face as he flinched from the memory onslaught.

And yet, the lobby looked so much different than the last time he was here. The ice had been removed, along with all of those doomed people. There was currently a construction crew situated in the middle of the room with scaffolding standing as high as the ceiling. The hole that had been made there during the Night of Ice had been repaired, construction workers currently modeling the new ceiling to match the rest of it. It was almost as if nothing had even happened.

That caused Matt's blood to boil. Something terrible did happen here and he was living proof of it. Yeah, let's see this greedy corporation try and sweep him under the rug. He wasn't gonna let these corporate fat cats and their corporate money ignore him!

With the welcoming return of his confidence, he strolled right up to the front desk and waited impatiently for the receptionist to notice him. She was a young woman who seemed to be fascinated with some important person on the phone. Eight months ago, people would have recognized him him the moment he entered the room, so actually having to wait for people to realize who he was was taking some getting use to. Matt didn't like it one bit.

What felt like an eternity later, the receptionist looked up at him as she hung up her phone. "May I help you?" she asked politely.

With a dramatic gesture, he placed down his newspaper clipping of the Wayne article in front of the woman and said, "I'm here to accept Mr. Wayne's offer."

The receptionist glanced down at the paper before reaching down somewhere beneath her desk and withdrew a clipboard, some paper held to it by the clip. "I'll need you to fill out these forms and provide documentation that proves you were injured during the Victor Fries attack."

Matt's mouth dropped open. Paperwork? Proof?! What kind of con job was this?! Wayne had openly stated he would help him and this office drone was trying to prove her superiority over him! How dare she?! Didn't she know who he was?

Leaning over the desk menacingly, he growled, "I've been promised medical help by the owner of this corporation, your boss, and I will not be denied what is rightfully owed me." There, that should do it. He could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be.

The woman was not intimidated. "Sir, we get a lot of people claiming to have been injured or victimized by Dr. Fries. A lot of them have proven false and that little clipping of yours specifically states that we will help those _directly _harmed by the events of the Fries Incident. If you can't prove you were hurt then, we cannot _and_ will not assist you."

Matt was stunned by this admission, which was quickly overcome by anger. "I am _Matt Hagan_," he snarled through clenched teeth. "Do you not recognize me? I was 'harmed' by that psycho in this freakin' lobby!" By now, he was yelling at the top of his lungs, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. "Now get me a Goddamn doctor and fix my fucking face, you little sh—"

"Is there a problem?" a kind voice interrupted. Whipping around, the actor saw a security guard standing right next to him, one hand hanging limply at his side while the other rested on his belt.

"Yes, I believe I am having one," Matt replied, reigning in his temper. "You see, I am here seeking medical attention from 'injuries,'" at this he glared at the receptionist before returning his sights to the security officer, "and the receptionist here was giving me a runaround, preventing me from attaining the services owed to me."

The receptionist spoke up, "I was just informing 'Mr. Hagan' here that it is company policy that he has to fill out the request forms in order to get any treatment and he started yelling and cussing at me."

Matt returned his glare to the woman and shot back, "You never mentioned anything about 'company policy' you…" He trailed off his last words, trying to hold them back. Though enraged, openly insulting a woman in front of another person would not help his situation.

"Well Sir, I can assure you that you have to fill out these forms," the officer said.

Again, Matt was taken back by this. "But I was hurt in this very same room!" At this, he pointed to a wall, the very one Fries had slammed his face against. "I can point it out to you! It was right there!"

"Then put it on the request form," the security man said. "We can check out the footage of that night and confirm you were there. Then you'll go see the medical staff and everything will be alright, okay?"

Matt let out an aggrieved sigh. "Fine, just give me that stupid form."

"There we go. Now let's have a seat at one of the chairs, okay? You can fill out the form and give it back to Cassie here."

"Whatever," Matt scoffed as he snatched up the clipboard and trudged over to a set of chairs, each one surrounding a table. Sitting down in one, he began filling out the form, a storm of dark thoughts filling his mind. This whole thing was ridiculous, an utter waste of time. He came here for a damn doctor, not a waste of dead trees that were obviously affecting the environment.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."

Matt scowled as he looked up from the clipboard, seeing a red-haired man standing next to him. "And it concerns you, how?" At first glance, the actor couldn't hide his distaste. The man wore a business suit and reeked of arrogance; he had to be one of those fatcats. So was Wayne trying to silence him now?

"Other than it being rather loud, I couldn't help but be intrigued." The man shook his head. "Now where are my manners? I'm Dr. Thomas Elliot and I do believe that I can help you."

Matt straightened up in his seat. A doctor! Finally!

"Got your attention, didn't I?" the doctor chuckled. "As I was saying, I think I can help you. Do pardon the staff here. They're only doing what they are paid to do and you have to admit, those bandages do a very good job of concealing your identity. It's no wonder they didn't recognize a man of your stature."

The dark-haired man considered that. Yeah, that had to be why these people didn't immediately wait on him. He had done too well concealing his identity; these commoner clothes worked! "So how can you help me?"

"I'm a surgeon, Mr. Hagan. I have done many things on the operating table, performed miracles in some cases," Dr. Elliot said. "I would need to assess the extent of your injuries, but I don't think it'll be a problem to restore you to your original, handsome self."

Matt lit up at those words. "You can? I can be..._me_ again?"

"Memorize these words: nothing is impossible," the red-haired man declared.

A smile, the first in months, worked its way onto the man's face. This...this is what he had come for. Finally, everything was going his way. Glancing down to the clipboard, he then said, "What about these forms?"

"Let me worry about those," the doctor assured him as he pried the clipboard out of his hands. "All you need to do is get me documentation of your identity; driver's license, birth certificate, those kind of things. There are a lot of creeps and weirdos out there who would love nothing more than to take the kind of medical attention you deserve for themselves. We want to make sure that you get what you need most."

Now that he put it that way, no wonder Wayne had put up all these obstacles. No way did Matt want some identity thief to take what was rightfully his. And now that this Dr. Elliot fellow was taking care of everything—much like how things had always been for him—it seemed as if the world was returning to the way it was. Finally.

"I'll handle everything on the Wayne end. What I want you to do now is to go home and get your identification ready. When you do, call this number," Dr. Elliot held out a small business card, "and we'll set up an appointment, preferably as soon as possible."

"Yeah, yeah! Definitely soon." A look of relief was on Matt's face as he stood up. Reaching out, he grabbed the doctor's hand and vigorously shook it. "Thank you!"

A light-hearted grin graced the redhead's lips. "You're welcome, Mr. Hagan. I promise you, you won't regret a thing."

* * *

Gordon rubbed at his forehead, trying to ease the headache that he could feel was growing. It wasn't the first time he had done it while at his desk, but usually it was over a tough case the department was trying to solve.

This brand of headache only occurred when something related to the media frustrated him. In this particular case, the front page of today's paper rested on top of the only opened space of his typically folder-stacked desk. The headline was not important when compared to the blown up photo that was the cause of this latest "scandal."

Someone had taken a photo of him last night and at possibly the worst moment. On the front page was none other than himself shaking hands with the Batman. This image was all over Gotham by now and the storm that it was going to produce, oh it was going to be a nasty one. He could feel it.

Gordon had no doubt that the explanation of his thanking the city's vigilante was going to fly with the authorities over at City Hall. He knew the call from Mayor Krol was coming; it was only a matter of when.

As unfortunate as it was, Hamilton Hill had lost during the last election and in his place the voters had chosen a man named Armand Krol. From their first meeting, the commissioner knew that Krol didn't like him. At the first opportunity, the new mayor would more than likely try to get rid of him. Gordon couldn't think of a better one than what was staring him in the face.

And what was worse, now that he was taking another look at it, the article was written by Vikki Vale. Why did it have to be Vale? Not that any of the other reporters were any better, but still. At least with his last thorn in his side, you could expect quality in the writing.

He jerked as the phone on his desk rung. Shaking his head at himself, he plucked the receiver off its stand and brought it up to his ear. "Commissioner," he spoke into the phone.

"_Have you seen the papers?"_ the deceptively calm voice of Gotham's new mayor asked.

Eyes lowering to once again gaze on the front page, "I have." No sense trying to delay the inevitable.

"_So you know what this is about,"_ Krol stated. "_Do I even need to explain how bad this makes the police department, my police department, look?"_

"No sir, you don't." He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyelids shutting.

"_Then that saves me a lot of time. Do you remember what I campaigned for?_" the mayor demanded. "_I ran on a platform of not only reducing crime in this city, but making sure it stays down. That's all crime, Gordon. That includes vigilantism. So how do you think this makes me look when I see a picture of the commissioner of my law enforcement shaking hands with a criminal?"_

He didn't need to say anything. There was no point. Those were good points, all of them, and he couldn't think of anything to try and clear this up. It was a mess, pure and simple.

"_It appears to me that another shakeup of the Gotham PD is in order,"_ Krol continued.

"So when do you expect me to pack up?" Gordon asked, deciding to cut to the chase.

"_Unfortunately, not right now."_ He could hear the frustration in Krol's voice. "_An investigation is necessary as per the CBA with your union, but don't you start relaxing Gordon. I've already called up Internal Affairs and they are on this. One of their own should be paying you a visit sometime today and I expect you to cooperate."_

"I understand," Gordon answered.

It seemed like Krol had run out of steam by then because he hung up soon after, leaving the commissioner no less stressed than he was before. Now this was perfect; he was about to have IA up his ass. Well, he should have some time to get himself ready before their handpicked man did, as Krol explained it, "pay him a visit." So he should—

A sharp rap at the door disturbed his thoughts. What was it now? Well, so long as it was something that pertained to law enforcement, he could at least take his mind off of this latest scandal.

"Come in."

The door was barely opened when the man on the other side stated, "Lieutenant Forbes, Internal Affairs."

As Gordon looked up at the blond-haired, middle-aged man, all he could think of was _Wow, these IA boys move fast._

"Don't bother getting up, I know who you are, Commissioner," Forbes continued. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me? Like you, I want this over and done with as soon as possible so if you cooperate, that's how it'll go over."

Almost word for word from Krol. Did these two know each other?

"This situation is pretty much as you see it. A photo was taken of me with the vigilante Batman—"

"The criminal," Forbes interrupted, correcting him.

Gordon paused before he resumed, "The criminal Batman."

"Shaking hands," Forbes added, glowering down over him.

"Yes, shaking hands," he nodded.

"Do you not see a problem with this?" Forbes asked. "I don't know about you, but I sure do. And over at a place called Internal Affairs, we have a term for cops who get too cozy with lawbreakers. We call them criminals because they are no different than the scum in which your department is obligated to protect the public from."

"And how many of these criminals have you brought in?" Gordon questioned, feeling pretty annoyed by this guy. "Last I checked, there hasn't been a successful IA prosecution in the last ten years. Before that, three, maybe four in the preceding seven? Where were you when Loeb was accepting bribes? Everybody knew he was; all you had to do was ask."

Okay, maybe antagonizing the IA agent was not the smartest thing, but damn it, Forbes was rubbing him the wrong way. As in the really wrong way.

Forbes narrowed his eyes. "I would be careful if I were you, Commissioner. I wasn't around for all those years, but I am here to make up for lost time. And trust me, I will do a _thorough_ investigation of these allegations, of that I assure you."

"Do what you gotta do," Gordon remarked. "Just as long as it doesn't interfere with police business."

"I thought you knew Gordon, all police business is my business," Forbes retorted.

_Dick_. "So are we done here?" the older man replied stonily.

"Almost." With this, Forbes took a seat in one of the chairs in front of Gordon's desk. "I'm going to need to see all of your financial records from the last five years. Potentially the five before that as well."

The commissioner's eyes widened as his nostrils flared. How dare this prick insinuate he was taking bribes. Inwardly he seethed, but he wasn't about to let Forbes know about it. Odds are the man would have fed off it.

"Fine," he spat out. "Is that all?"

"For the moment. I'm sure you don't have them on hand, so I'll wait. Your precinct has good coffee, right?"

_Damn you to hell, Vale._

* * *

"Well that don't look good," Bullock commented, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he crossed his arms.

"Mmm," Essen hummed beside him, typing on a keyboard at a nearby desk. "Forget your aftershave again?"

"I was in a hurry, but that's beside the point," Bullock huffed as he leaned back in his chair, hearing the metal frame squeal in protest. "You'd be sweating too if you had IA on your ass."

"Personal experience?"

"Nothing that a beer or twelve couldn't solved." Bullock nodded his head towards the commissioner's office. "But that guy in there? I've heard nothing but bad stuff about him. Once he's been assigned to you, you can kiss your ass goodbye."

Essen's lifted her head at that, a worried expression on her face. "Is Jim gonna be okay?"

"Hard to say," he shrugged. Turning his head slightly, he eyed today's paper with the damning photo smack dab in the middle of it. "The com'mish got himself into quite a pickle and with that bat-freak of all people."

"He did save Jim's daughter, Harvey," Essen pointed out.

Bullock sighed. "I know, and hey, I'd be grateful too if it had been my daughter. But he's the commissioner and he can't be caught up in stuff like this. I mean, he shook the freak's hand at a crime scene—a crime scene! He should've known better."

Essen bit her lip and looked down.

"Besides, if he knew he was going to be doing..._that_, he should have hidden it better," Bullock continued. "Instead, he lets one of those vultures snap a shot of him and now look where he is. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, that's what this is."

"So what would you have done?" Essen asked, looking back up at Bullock. "If you were in Jim's shoes."

"Jim?" the large man questioned. Turning his chair to face the blonde woman, he said, "You've been throwing that name around a lot lately." A smirk stretched over his face. "Got something to say, L-T?"

An uncharacteristic blush reddened Essen's cheeks and she looked away. "It slipped out. It doesn't mean anything."

"Are you sure?" Bullock teased. "It's been slipping out of your pretty mouth a lot lately, three in the last five minutes. Sounds like you're a little close to the com'mish if I don't say so myself."

"Can we drop this?" Essen coughed, looking around quickly to see if anyone was listening in on them.

Bullock was getting ready to reply when someone came to a stop right next to them, drawing his and Essen's attention. Standing at attention was a young, hispanic woman, dressed in her best officer's uniform. For some reason, Bullock was thinking salsa and mariachi bands.

"Umm, can we help you?" the blonde lieutenant inquired quizzically.

"I'm looking for Sergeant Harvey Bullock," the woman announced clearly, without the hint of an accent.

"You found him," the large man said as he turned his chair so he could fully face her. "What d'ya want?"

If possible, the woman straightened her posture further and answered, "I've been assigned as your partner."

That caused Bullock to blink his eyes owlishly. "A partner? Me?" He turned his head over to Essen and asked, "Did I hear that right?"

Essen nodded her head and replied, "I heard the same thing."

"Weird. I haven't had a partner since I bashed that last guy's head in with my shotgun. Heh, sure showed him not to steal my donuts."

Essen rolled her eyes. "You did not do that."

"Can't bullshit a bullshitter huh? I guess ya got me. But the head-bashing part still happened."

"Okay, that part I believe," Essen deadpanned. Then turning to his new partner, "Good luck."

"Hey, with me, she don't need no luck," Bullock boasted. "Ain't that right...uhh, what's your name, Rook?"

"Officer Renee Montoya, Sir!" the woman answered loudly.

"You hear that, Blondie? She called me 'Sir.' Before you know it, she'll be calling me Harv, just like you do with the com'mish."

"I don't call the commissioner 'Harv.'"

"That's right, it's '_Jim_.'"

"Am I interrupting anything here, Sir?" Renee Montoya asked with uncertainty.

"Naw, Rook, have a seat and we'll find you a desk. In fact, you can take the one right there," he gestured to an empty yet messy workplace.

"Bullock, that's your desk," Essen deadpanned.

"Is it? Then you can have that one," the sergeant replied, pointing to the one next to it.

"That's Cort's."

"Not anymore it ain't. Make yourself at home, Rook; we're gonna be spending a lot of quality time together."

Maybe it was him, but Bullock could have sworn he saw a grimace on his new rookie's face, but then again, it could've been the lighting. They had been needing some new light bulbs lately, what with all of them disappearing one after the other. They seemed to coincide with the light bulbs going out at his house too. Funny how that happened.

* * *

To anon: While I appreciate the knowledge dumps, would you mind commenting on the story as well? I'd really appreciate the feedback.


	4. Eyes In The Night

She was a young girl, upper teens, blonde, pretty. Wasn't very smart considering she was walking down a street long after the sun had set. Nighttime wasn't a good time to be a woman walking home by their self.

That was evidenced by a man in a dark green hoodie following her several yards back.

The man had been following the girl since she had left a flower shop two streets over. To the girl's credit, she had kept to the well-lit streets, but that was all she had going for her. From his rooftop perch, the Batman studied her stalker. The man's gait and posture were relaxed as if he weren't concerned. Any passerbyer would have assumed he just happened to be walking the same way the girl was.

But the vigilante knew better. While most crimes were spontaneous in nature, every once in awhile he came across thugs that planned out their attacks. This just so happened to be one of them.

His scowl deepened as the girl turned into an alleyway, one that ran right next to the building he crouched on—the blonde's second mistake. Her stalker kept at his own pace, entering the alley moments later. Quietly, he followed the girl and man as they went down the dirty alley. Any minute now, the thug would attack and he would be on him.

Suddenly, the blonde girl came to a stop. Staring at her for a moment, the Batman glanced to the alley's exit and saw another man, this one dressed in a brown coat and baseball cap. He had been expecting a second man, but he wasn't sure where he would be. So these two had been casing this girl for some time, learning her patterns and apparently she thought running down alleyways was a good idea.

The man in the cap said something unintelligible, the acoustics of the alley distorting his words. The man in the green hoodie came to a stop behind the girl, the blonde finally noticing him as she turned her head to look at him before returning it to the one in front of her. Her posture had stiffened with fear; she knew she had made a mistake.

That was when something flashed in the hand of the man with the cap, a switchblade clutched in his fingers. He approached the girl, making sure she saw his weapon until he stood just below the vigilante. A growl reverberated up the Batman's throat. This had gone on long enough.

Standing at the edge of the building, he grasped his cape and stepped off his perch. Gravity instantly took a hold of him and he fell towards the three, his cape billowing open. Due to his grip, it formed a makeshift parachute, slowing his descent just enough to prevent him from injuring himself during the fall.

And then, he let his cape go and dropped the remaining distance down, his feet landing right on top of the man with the cap's shoulders. The force of his fall and weight combined to force the man crumple to the ground with a pained cry, just as the dark-clad vigilante had intended. The girl shrieked and shot over to the wall, providing him a clear path to the man in the hoodie. Not letting the opportunity slip by, the Batman launched himself at his new target, slamming a fist into the man's face, cutting off his terrified yell prematurely.

Grabbing the hoodie, the vigilante then twisted his body to the side and swung the thug into the brick wall of one of the buildings. Then with a grunt, he turned the other way and picked the man right off the ground, throwing him into the building on the other side. The man in the hoodie hit the wall with his back and crashed to the cement ground a moment with a cry. Taking a step to the man, the Batman raised a foot up and kicked it forward, the bottom of his boot making contact with the man's face and slammed the back of his head against the wall, rendering him unconscious.

Staring at the fallen man, Batman turned his head to look at the other and was satisfied that both were immobilized for the time being. Turning his attention to the girl, he found her sitting against one of the walls, her back pressed into it as if it would swallow her up. Her blue eyes were wide with fright and awe. It made him feel uncomfortable. Watching her for a moment, the vigilante grunted out, "Call the police. Let them know what happened."

He only stayed long enough to see the girl nod her head before he turned and left. He was gone by the time she had pulled out her phone from her purse, though he caught her surprised yelp at his disappearance.

As he finished his climb onto the building he had been keeping watch, he transversed the roof and leapt over to the next one. Running now, he pulled out his grapple and fired it at the next, much taller building. Feeling the line go taunt, he kept running until he ran right off the roof's edge. At the same time, he hit the line retrieval button, immediately pulling himself up through the air. The force of his ascension flung him over the point his grapple had latched onto and up onto the taller building's roof. Hitting a second button the grapple gun, the grapple claw released its hold and trailed after him until it reach the gun's barrel. Placing the grapple back into his belt, he crossed over the building's roof and crouched down once more, looking over the city again.

As odd as it seemed, the Batman couldn't shake off the look she had given him. It wasn't that he was shocked by the expression, in fact he had received it many times during his tenure and fully expected it to continue for as long as he did this. No, what disturbed him was that he kept feeling as if they were still on him.

It had started shortly after his fight with Fries. The vigilante had begun feeling as if he were constantly being watched, as if something dormant had awaken in the city and was keeping an eye on him. He didn't like it, not one bit.

The dark-clad man had attempted to find what was watching him, but as of yet he hadn't been successful. Whatever, whoever it was, they did not want to be exposed right now. Too bad that the Batman didn't give a damn what they wanted. Sooner or later, he would corner them and find out what they were up to.

Until then, he had a city to protect.

A scream suddenly rang out, instantly gaining the vigilante's attention. Launching himself off the building, he activated a current of electricity in the gauntlets he wore and grabbed his cape. The cape stiffened into a glider instantly and he flew through the air, closing in on the scream. If there had been one thing good to come out of Fries' rampage, it was the revelation of this cape. The delivery system still needed some improvements, but he could use it more than once now.

Down the street, he caught sight of three people, two men and one woman. One man held a gun and was pointing it at the woman, who was frozen in terror. The other man was on the ground, though it wasn't quite obvious as to why. Didn't matter. Angling his glide down, he descended through the air, bringing him closer to the standoff.

Leaning backwards, he swung his legs out in front of him, keeping them together. A second later, his feet rammed into the side of the thug's head, knocking him off the ground, and slamming him into the side of the nearby building. Pushing off with his feet, the Batman released his hold on his cape and felt it go slack, his body moving backwards as landed nimbly on the sidewalk, watching as the man collapsed into a heap a moment later.

Turning his head to look at the woman, he found that she was standing still, still in fright, but that fright had now transferred to him. A look to the other man showed that he was hurt, a bloody gash on the side of his head. From where the vigilante stood, he couldn't see any bullet wounds, though that didn't mean they weren't there. He'd leave it to the woman to call for medical assistance.

Looking back at the fallen thug, the dark-clad man paused. He recognized the guy, though barely. It was faint, but he swore this guy had worked for one of the mob families, Maroni's or Falcone's. Consider both families were currently inactive, it made sense that some of the lower level men were resorting to petty theft and assault.

However, Batman wasn't a man to simply accept an assumption. He preferred facts and this man would most certainly have some that he wanted.

* * *

She needed to be inconspicuous, smart, and above all elusive. She was on the secretest of secret missions one could ever have and the consequences were high should she be caught. Her target, however, was not easy to find. Her best bet laid within a fortress where countless men and women walked the floors, going one place to another, yelling, shouting, calling, and making all sorts of noise.

Some were there by choice, others not so much. Naturally those who weren't there by choice deserved to be there. She on the other hand, well, it was complicated.

Not that that would keep her away, oh no. She was determined to complete her mission regardless of the consequences. Because it would be worth it. Because it was something she needed to do. Because—

"What are you doing here, Barbara? Looking for your old man or something?"

Drat. She had been caught. The red-haired girl put on the charm as she turned to face her identifier only to find...Bullock. Well, maybe there was a way around this.

"Oh, I'm here to see my dad," she said, tilting her head to a side. Her dad had always told her she was cute and she planned to use that to her advantage, somehow. "Do you know where I can find him?" she asked, continuing to lie through her teeth.

"Maybe you can cheer him up," Bullock murmured to himself, though Barbara was able to hear him loud and clearly. It made her a bit worried to hear that her father might not be in a good mood. "The best place to find him would be his office," the large man told her. "He's been there all day cooped up with a bureaucratic weasel. Can't say he's too happy at the moment. But if he's escaped, you might try up on the roof."

On purpose, Barbara frowned. "The roof?"

"Oops, did I say that?" For a second, Bullock looked like a deer in the headlights and he quickly went into damage control mode. "I mean, he's uh...he's...I'm not going to fool you, am I?"

Not very fast on his feet, was he? Wasn't he one of Dad's detectives? Well, perhaps this was more of a blessing in disguise. He wouldn't catch on to her ulterior purpose here in the Gotham City Police Department.

In answer to his question, she shook her head no and watched him expectantly.

"Well, your old man likes going up on the roof for breaks," Bullock told her. Then in a soft whisper, "But don't let him know I told you that."

"Of course," she assured him. "I'm going to look for him all over the place first." _Add a wink and…_

"Yeah, yeah you do that," Bullock said, relieved.

Feeling the need to be a bit mischievous, she slyly questioned, "Is he going up there to smoke?"

Bullock choked and looked side to side, a hand reaching up to pull at the tie wrapped around his beefy neck.

"Don't worry, he's not that good at hiding it," she reassured as she reached out to pat his arm. "He doesn't want me to worry."

"Yeah...you know him," the detective chuckled uncomfortably.

"I'll tell him you said 'hi'," she said as she continued on her way, trying to keep up an innocent front.

She hadn't gone far enough to hear him muttered, "Never having kids…"

Oh, he was a big softy at heart. He just had to be all tough and stuff. Well, at least she had a lead and further excuse should she need it. Her plan to go in without being detected had failed, but at least her real goal hadn't been found out yet.

_Sorry, Daddy. You're too much of a convenient excuse._ No, the real reason she was here was to see someone else, someone more, for a lack of a better word, _cool_.

The Batman was cool. And he had saved her. And she wanted to get another look at him. She didn't understand why everybody was making such a fuss about him when he was going around saving people. Why would people be mad about that?

And according to the paper, he and her dad were friends, so logically the Batman had to visit the police station, right? That's what friends do, they go and visit each other, hang out, share stories. She was hoping that today had one of those visits.

Okay, so where to go? Dad's office? Or the roof? Hmm, choices...as if. It was obvious where to go. The roof. If what Bullock had said was true about her dad and a weasel, by now he would have gotten away.

The girl trekked her way through the department, keep an eye out for any stairs. In particular, she wanted a flight of stairs that would go to the roof. Where would they be? By the elevator? A good place to start so why not?

Turned out her hunch was almost correct; she found a flight of stairs near the elevators. Unfortunately, it didn't lead to the roof. That just meant some more searching, though she would have to be more careful. If the stories of her dad having a hard time with the staff here were true, then she wouldn't be given the same free pass that she had on the lower levels. Eventually, she located another flight of stairs without incident and her luck was looking up this time. They led to the roof!

The cool night air rushed against her as she exited the building and she suppressed a shiver. The weather wasn't warming up yet. A quick glance around revealed that no one else was up here, meaning that her father was someplace else. Probably in his office, most likely.

Of course, her father wasn't the person she was actually looking for.

Letting the door shut behind her, Barbara strolled about on the roof, looking for any kind of movement against the Gotham landscape. It would be fast, but not too fast and it wouldn't be anywhere near street level. And if it wasn't moving, she supposed that it would be stationary, maybe standing atop of any of the nearby buildings.

Glancing at the skyscrapers that towered above her, she noted that what she was looking for may be at a higher altitude. As the minutes passed by and nothing worthy of her attention occurred, she began to become a bit impatient. She didn't know what she had been expecting coming up here, but nothing happening at all wasn't one of them.

If only there was some way to contact him, like some kind of beeper or a flare, heck even a skylight. Maybe one that had a big bat painted on it. That would get anyone's attention.

Wandering about the roof, Barbara continued looking for any sign of her true target, the Batman if it wasn't obvious by now. He worked only at night, from what she knew, so it stood to reason that he had to be out and about right now. So where could he be? She wanted to see him again more than anything and preferably when there weren't a roomful of people trying to kill the both of them.

"What are you doing up here?"

She jumped, already berating herself for not noticing that she had company. Naturally, it couldn't have been some random cop who she could charm as she knew that voice better than the startup sound of her computer.

Standing at the rooftop entrance, the door behind him wide open was none other than her father. "I hope you haven't been picking up any bad habits because that's the only thing that happens up here."

"Oh, um, I was just getting some air," she hastily tried to come up with an excuse, hoping that her father wouldn't catch her.

It was a no go. "You couldn't have opened a window or stayed out front, though I will admit it's safer up here than in front of the precinct." Her father was being all jovial, taking a roundabout way to get her to spill her guts and damn it, it always worked. She wanted to resist as the commissioner strolled his way towards her. "Still, are you sure that's why you came up here? I heard from Bullock that you were looking for me. You could have gone to my office."

She would call Bullock a turncoat, but she knew that she hadn't made an ally of him, so he couldn't have betrayed her in the first place.

"So, are you going to tell me what really brought you up here?" her father finished as he came to a stop beside her, his eyes staring straight into the heart of Gotham.

She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to answer. It was...embarrassing, that was all.

"It doesn't matter," she practically croaked out, internally wincing. "It's not important. We should be going back inside, shouldn't we?"

"I'm in no hurry," her dad replied. "In fact, I'm in the mood to drag my feet going back in so as you can guess, I'm not heading inside any time soon."

_Oh come on!_ Barbara did not want to be in this spot, not right now. She did not want to get grilled any further and the longer she stayed out her, the greater the chance she would lose her resolve. Damn it, she wasn't supposed to have been caught!

"You're looking for him, aren't you?" Gordon asked quietly, still looking straight ahead. Now she was certain she looked like a deer in the headlights, but before she could demand to know how he knew that, he added, "Don't give me that look. I know you better than you know yourself. You have to give me credit."

There was a reason he was the commissioner, she supposed. That sucked for her because he was always doing this, somehow figuring out what she was up to all the time.

"I wouldn't get too attached, Barbara," her father stated.

Okay, now she had to ask. "Why are so many people against him, Daddy?"

Her father hummed. After a moment, he answered, "It's complicated. There are a lot of reasons; the number one being that he's upsetting the status quo. Others include the fact that he's breaking the law doing what he's doing."

"What do you think?" She had to get that out there. She needed to know what her father thought about it, if he was for or against Batman.

"What do I think," the older man repeated before he let out a sigh. "There's a part of me that wishes that he wasn't around," he admitted, much to Barbara's dismay. "On the other hand, there's a much bigger part of me that knows we need him out there. This city needs to change and it needs to do so badly. I may not wholeheartedly approve of what he's doing, but I know that I appreciate it.

"How about we get back inside? It's a bit chilly up here, don't you think?" Her father adjusted his coat as a breezed chilled the two of them.

"Maybe we can wait up here a little longer. I...I don't get to be with you often," she said quietly. She knew that the one thing her father didn't want to do was go back inside, but the fact that he was offering to, well, that was like him. Thinking of others first, never himself. The least she could do was buy him some more time.

"Isn't that the truth," he agreed, reaching an arm out to wrap around her shoulders.

* * *

The tunnel winded left and right until it reached a large cave. The rumbles of a car engine echoed off the rocky walls. Coming to a stop, Batman parked his latest car and turned it off. It was similar in design to his previous one, but there were some aesthetic differences. The batwing fenders on the back were longer and rose higher into the air. The car's body was narrower and sat slower to the ground for increased aerodynamics. Subtle differences to be sure, but they were improvements over the previous design.

Once the canopy slid forward, the Batman climbed out of the vehicle and strode across a metal bridge. Behind him, a metal platform rose up, lifting the car up, and spun around until the vehicle faced the opposite direction, the platform sinking back down.

Reaching the other side of the bridge, the vigilante made his way towards the large computer, its monitor brightly lit. Taking a seat in the chair before it, he immediately began typing on the keyboard, bringing up a documentation program and filling the digital page with words. A comforting silence fell about the cave, the only sounds being made the clicks of keys and the occasional chirp of a bat. It was...soothing.

And then he felt a presence. "Quiet night, Sir?" a british accent inquired.

That soured the dark-clad man's mood. It wasn't directed at the older man behind him as much as what he had found out earlier that night. "In some places," he replied carefully.

"And in others?"

"It's about to get noisier." Pausing for a moment, he then said, "There's word on the streets that Maroni is coming back."

"No doubt to reestablish his criminal empire," Alfred continued for him. There was a clinking sound that distracted Batman for a moment. "Some tea, Sir?"

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the silver tray in his butler's hands, a pot of tea with two empty china teacups resting on it. "No, thank you," he responded before returning his attention back to his program.

"May I inquire as to how you came across this information, Sir?" Alfred asked, an attempt to continue the conversation.

"One of Maroni's lower level thugs told me," the vigilante answered before the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk. "At least that's what I gathered from his babbling."

"And why was this 'thug' babbling?"

"I'm pretty sure it was because of me," he deadpanned. A moment passed before he added thoughtfully, "Though it could have been he was hanging upside down off the edge of the building."

"Surely it was you," Alfred said in a way that made the dark-clad man's smirk grow wider. "I'm assuming he gave you an idea of when Mr. Maroni will be making his reappearance."

"Within the week." Stopping his typing, the Batman leaned back in his chair, a hand raising up to rest under his chin, two fingers extended up and touching his cheek. "I'll need confirmation though, so the next few nights I'll need to patrol Maroni's old territories. Undoubtedly he'll be trying to reassert his racketeering network again to regain control."

"I suppose that's easier said than done."

The vigilante nodded his head. "Stromwell and Loman have been competing with each other over Maroni's turf." A grimace covered his face then. "It'll be a three way fight between the families with a lot of losers, particularly the people living there."

A silence fell over the two men until Alfred cleared his throat. "I apologize to be the bearer of further bad news then. I found out which IA agent has been assigned to investigate Commissioner Gordon."

Batman's other hand went to the keyboard and tapped a couple of buttons. Immediately, the screen showed a picture of a blond man with a stern look on his face. A list of information describing the man was next to the picture, indicating name, DOB, height, weight, and so on. "John Forbes, Lieutenant. Originally an officer from Metropolis, he transferred to Gotham seven years ago, two years in Robbery, the last five in Internal Affairs," the dark-clad man read out loud. "Made several arrests over the years, though all went without convictions thanks to the former commissioner, Loeb. Has a reputation for doggedly pursuing any and all suspects."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say that man sounds familiar," Alfred quipped.

"Funny," Batman deadpanned, dropping his hand from his face as he readjusted his posture in the chair. "He may be a problem."

"Concerning the commissioner or you?"

"Both. Gordon's the only link I have the GCPD. If he goes down, I'm as good as cut off from the police. I can only imagine how the Cobblepot bust would have gone down had Gordon not been there."

"Worst case scenario?"

"If someone else was in Gordon's job, he would be in Cobblepot's back pocket, which returns the GCPD back to how it was under Loeb. Assuming that our text did send out the same police force to Cobblepot's building, it's likely SWAT would have been sent in and I'd be their first target."

"Unlike now."

A snort was his response, but that was all he gave concerning that point. "Right now we don't need some hotshot IA lieutenant ruining our work. The mob is weak and we need to stamp them out before they recover."

"Quite." There was a pause. "I believe I do need to remind you that Bruce Wayne is expected this morning. Mr. Elliot is performing a demonstration that he'll expect you to attended."

Batman remained silent before he nodded his acceptance. "I believe this'll be all for tonight."

"Very good, Sir."

* * *

To anon: Vale is definitely someone that goes after the truth. At least that's the impression I've gotten from more recent comics. This story, I've started her from square one though, so she doesn't have the cred she does in the canon storylines. And it doesn't help I've also made her catty at times lol. She has some growing to do, that's for sure.


	5. Elliot's Moment

The waiting room was small and cold, its bland colors offering no warmth. Goosebumps ran up and down Matt Hagan's legs as they dangled off the padded table, the individual hairs on them sticking up this way and that. The hospital gown the actor wore just reached his knees, though he wasn't uncomfortable with that. He had worn many a hospital attire, so he was used to the apparel.

Matt was a bundle of nerves though, fidgeting on the table anxiously. It was almost time for the surgery, time to restore his award-winning features, and reclaim his spot as Hollywood's best artist. The minute hand on the clock was slowly edging its way across its face, each second instilling more and more nervous energy inside the man. He wanted this thing done now.

The day had only just started and yet it felt as if it night was falling. Nurses had come and gone, asking him questions, who he was, what his medical history was, when he was born. One of them had even come in with a photo and a pen and had drawn lines over his marred face. Then there were the endless tests, the taking of vitals, and who knows what else these people were up to. How much more was he going to have to go through for this operation? Surely there wasn't anything more they wanted from him!

The door to the room opened then, Dr. Elliot stepping in with a wide smile on his face, a rather attractive woman in hospital scrubs entering behind him. "And how's my patient today?" the doctor greeted him warmly.

Matt let out a sigh. "Nervous I guess," he admitted. "Are we going to the operating room now?"

"Not just yet." At this, the woman walked around the redhead, brandishing several documents. "There's a few matters we need to address first. Standard procedures for the most part. The papers the nurse is handing you are liability waivers and all that other legal stuff the lawyers simply insist we give everyone."

Matt took the offered papers and began reading them, losing interest in them a line or two in and simply gazed at the printed lettering. "I am also obliged to explain the procedure to you," Dr. Elliot continued, sounding as if he had said those words many times before. "It is a simple procedure, really. You will be undergoing reconstructive surgery on your face. We will be using a new process that utilizes a facial cream, which will allow us to mold and shape your face in accordance with the images you have provided us. Is this correct?"

Matt soaked in the doctor's words, a queasy feeling welling up inside him. "Is this going to hurt? The moving around my face stuff?"

"I don't believe it will. If you wish, we can administer some anesthesia to render you unconscious."

"Yeah, yeah I'd like that."

"Supurb. Now, you'll notice in the bottom left-hand corner there is a small blank. You need to put your initials there and on every page thereafter. You also need to give your signature on pages three, four, and seven. All that's for is showing acknowledgement that you were briefed on your surgery and that all the information there is correct. Not to worry, I didn't leave any nasty surprises in there like my lawyer wanted me too," the man added with a sly grin.

"Umm," Matt spoke as he raised his hand up. "Can I get a pen? I don't have one on me."

"Most certainly!" Reaching inside his white lab coat, Dr. Elliot pulled out a rather nice-looking pen and held it out to the actor. Taking it, Matt immediately began scribbling in his initials and signing the document. When done, he held out the pen and papers, both of which were taken by the nurse and doctor respectively. "We're almost there, Mr. Hagan," the redhaired man said, an excited gleam in his eyes. "I'll be leaving you know to finish preparations in the OR. I'll also have the anesthesiologist ready for the procedure. The circulating nurse will be here shortly to take you in and we'll get underway." Reaching up, Elliot grasped Matt's shoulder and gave him a comforting squeeze. "You are in good hands, Mr. Hagan. You'll be as good as new when you wake up."

This time, Matt could feel the giddiness flowing through him. "That's what I'm here for."

* * *

It was not an unfamiliar sight to see Thomas Elliot, one of Gotham's darling sons, billionaire extraordinaire, and all around ladies man to be decked out in a set of hospital scrubs. He was a doctor after all. When he wasn't busy running a profitable pharmaceutical company or chasing skirts at high society functions, he could be found in a hospital prep room, washing his hands as he prepared himself both hygienically and psychologically for the task at hand.

He almost chuckled at the amount of preparation he was taking as he slipped on a white lab coat. It wasn't as if any of this was truly necessary, since this wasn't an invasive procedure. Still, there was something to be said about infection prevention that was taught _ad nauseum _to healthcare professions and was thus firmly ingrained in him during his studies at medical school. He could hear one of his professors drone in his head: _Make sure you are as clean as possible because your patient is going through a tough enough time already on your operating table._ _The last thing they need is your germs complicating their life._

And complications were the last thing he needed, especially today of all days. Today was his first step to making history. All he needed to do was impress the big wigs at Wayne Enterprises and he would have the capital to fully realize his brainchild.

He had to give credit where credit was due, though. Matt Hagan was going to be his pawn to move all that much closer to victory. Not only that, such a famous face promoting _his_ product, oh he could almost see the success flowing in excess.

But that was not now. No, he needed to be more focused on the present. It was in the present where it could all be lost. There was no way he was going to let that happen, not now.

_"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit."_

Aristotle. He tended to quote that old philosopher during times of great stress, perspective, or when he was about to do something...phenomenal.

Yes, he would accept nothing but excellence. With these two hands of his, he was going to do more than change one self-absorbed actor's face. He was going to change—

"Knock, knock. Everybody's waiting for you. Don't tell me you're getting cold feet, Tommy."

"Bruce, cold feet is something I never get," he replied, turning his head slightly to smirk at the sight of his childhood friend. Said friend was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets and returning Elliot's smile with a cocky one of his own. "In some ways it's appropriate that you say that. I feel like this occasion is as momentous as a wedding. A wedding of the present and the future."

"You have been working hard on this," Bruce remarked. "Are you sure that you're up to—"

"I should slap you Bruce for questioning my skills," he interrupted. "However, that would mean I would have to wash my hands extra thoroughly and delay this even longer. Who knows what bacteria you have on you."

"I always thought you liked to make a fashionably late entrance," his fellow billionaire playboy retorted.

"When it's the future, I am never late," Elliot declared. "I am always six steps ahead."

"Yes, you keep reminding me," the other man said. Did he detect…? Oh, that was a grimace there. Heh, heh.

"I wouldn't have to keep reminding you if you didn't keep falling for the same tricks over and over," the redhead teased.

"I don't fall for the same tricks; you keep changing them," Bruce said defensively and maybe with a little insolence in there.

"And that's the trick," Elliot chuckled. "You can't keep using the same strategy every time otherwise your opponent will know what you're going to do before you do it. It amazes me sometimes how you are able to run a corporation like Wayne Enterprises and not run it into the ground."

"Easy, I pay people to run it for me," the Wayne Enterprises corporate head quipped.

"Smart thinking...for you," the doctor praised.

"Thanks...you were mocking me just now, weren't you?" Oh, those accusing eyes…

"A little slow on the uptake, as usual. I hereby declare you healthy, Bruce. Vital signs are normal, but I can't say that your brain is any better than the last time we've chatted. You might want to get it checked out."

"Ha, ha, Tommy." Yes, he could hear the sarcasm from his old friend without the benefit of a hearing aid.

"You're just too easy, Bruce. I might have to find a more worthy adversary one of these days," Elliot continued to tease. "But that will have to wait for a later date. In the meantime, I'll settle for you and get on with helping Mr. Matt Hagan."

"Are you sure about him?" Bruce asked, the jovial voice dulling somewhat as blue eyes studied him carefully. "He's very high profile. If something were to go wrong…"

"Nothing will go wrong, of that I am certain," the redhead proclaimed. "Do not underestimate me or what I can do, Bruce. I am going to astound you, turn whatever hairs your board members have left white, and then play a round of golf in a little over an hour from now, depending on traffic of course."

"I just want to make sure—"

"You don't need to say another word. I am most confident in my product. I wouldn't be bringing you and the people you pay to run your company for you if I thought there was even a remote chance something could go wrong," he interrupted. Then, with a more softer voice, "I appreciate your concern, but there is truly nothing to worry about. I'm making a note, though, to rub this in later and revel in your embarrassment, ye of little faith."

"I have all my faith in your abilities, Tommy," Bruce stated. "If you're this confident, I don't think I have to worry all that much, do I?"

"Now you're getting it," the red-headed billionaire grinned. "_All who are able, may gain virtue by study and care, for it is better to be happy by the action of nature than by chance. To entrust to chance what is most important would be defective reasoning._"

"Who said that?" the other blinked almost owlishly.

"Who do you think? Aristotle," he answered. "The diagnosis remains standing. Now, go find yourself a good view. I need to get to work."

* * *

There was a low murmuring filling the operating theater. Most of the seats were filled with men in suits, an occasional open chair randomly place throughout. Doctors and businessmen alike were in deep discussions with each other.

The lowest level of the room was set up as an OR. A small table with a tray, various surgical instruments on it, along with a small, flat, circular container sat in the middle of the room. There were stands with blown up pictures of the actor Matt Hagan situated around in a semi-circle, each one of a different angle of the man.

Several rows up in the seating area was Bruce, leaning back in his chair and nonchalantly chatting with Lauren Granger. She had been one of the more vocal board members championing this new facial cream of Tommy's, so much so that the redhead had zeroed in on her during his presentation. She seemed quite fascinated with this cream, though Bruce had to admit he was also curious about it. Donald Steppenmeyer sat on the other side of Granger, adding his two cents to the conversation.

On the opposite side of Bruce was Lucius, who was in deep conversation with William Dithers—a man he and Tommy affectionately referred to as the "Cryptkeeper"—and from what the young man could hear, Lucius was trying to placate that man about Tommy's product. Dithers had been the biggest obstacle for this entire thing, doing whatever he could to dissuade the board from investing in this venture. Obviously he still had some reservations about this. The way Bruce saw it, they hadn't written a check yet, so where was the harm in watching a potential cash cow in action?

Of course, he couldn't quite express that at the moment. He had made it—perhaps—too clear that his interest was in the possibility of living a wrinkle-free life. It was an excellent talking point with the vainer members, but for an old geezer like Dithers, it held no power at all.

Still, the billionaire was here to support his friend and that's what he was going to do.

A door was opened then, which sent a hush about the room. The whine of creaky wheels could be heard as a bed was rolled into the room, Matt Hagan's prone body resting on it. There was a basket hanging between the two front legs with canisters resting in it, a tube running up from one of the canisters and connecting to an inhalation mask that covered the actor's nose and mouth. A man Bruce assumed to be the anesthesiologist walked to a side of the head of the bed, keeping a hand on the bed and the other near the canisters. A woman in scrubs pushed from the foot of the bed, directing it towards the small table where it came to a stop.

That was when Tommy entered the room, wearing a surgical gown and sterile gloves. Another woman, the scrub nurse, wore the same outfit and walked with the redhead. They both held their hands out in front of them and above their waists. They never once dropped their arms, even as they reached the bed, both of the separating and coming to stand on opposite sides of it.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Tommy greeted them with a booming voice. "Today, we will be witnessing the dawning of a new age in cosmetic pharmacology. The end of plastic surgery as we know it, or as I like to call it an operation of a bygone era."

There were a few chuckles at the doctor's lame joke, which Tommy blew off as he continued, "Today, I and Elliot Pharmaceuticals presents a revolutionary facial cream that will rid us of this unnecessary surgery. No more will hospital beds be filled with men and women seeking facial enhancements. No more will reconstructive surgery be a failed experience of attempting to restore a patient's features after a tragic accident and achieving mediocre results. All of that will change as you all will soon see."

With one hand, he swept it over his sleeping patient's body. "Before you lays famous Hollywood actor Matthew Hagan. As you can see, his face is severely disfigured, a result of bravely standing up to the madman we all know as Dr. Victor Fries. I consider this an honor to help such a hero recover what he lost in that horrible incident."

At this, Bruce leaned forward in his seat. The room had darkened as Tommy made his speech, the sole light hanging over the middle of the room, and consequently putting the sole focus of the room's occupants on him. The redhead's attention had dropped to his patient and everything else was gone or so it seemed. He was the center of attention for everyone in attendance.

Seconds ticked on by before Tommy reached over to the table next to him, picking up the round container and removing the top of it. Placing the lid back on the tray, Tommy paused as he stood over Hagan, almost as if he were trying to figure out what he would do next. Then he announced, "I will begin by administering the cream all over the patient's face."

At this, Tommy dipped two fingers into the cream and scooped out a large glob of it. Holding out the container to the nurse, who took it from him, the red-haired man began applying the cream, first with his two fingers drawing it over Hagan's forehead and down the bridge of his nose. The fingers then made streaks down one cheek and then the other, circling around on the chin before making a quick dash over the upper lip. Then with both hands, Tommy began massaging the cream into Hagan's face, using his fingertips to really rub it in.

"I will now begin the reconstruction of Mr. Hagan's face, beginning with the forehead," Tommy narrated has he began pressing and sliding his finger tips on that part of the head. Every few seconds, the doctor would look up at the pictures of Matt Hagan and make adjustments to what he was doing. "And now the nose."

Though his seating was too far for Bruce to see exactly what his friend was doing, large television screens hanging from the roof projected the image of a bird's eye view of the sleeping actor, Tommy's hands moving about his face. It was almost as if magic were in play as Hagan's face shifted and moved with every movement by Tommy. Bruce felt his jaw drop as disfigurements were wiped out of existence and steadily transformed into undamaged skin. It was like watching a child play with sillyputty. If there were any words uttered by Tommy, Bruce honestly couldn't say he heard them. He was simply captivated by what he saw.

And then, the red-haired man removed his hands from Hagan's face, revealing an exact duplicate of the man's pictures. With a flourish, Tommy spun around holding his arms out from him as he declared, "Operation complete."

As if on cue, hushed murmurings filled the room as the audience stared at what was nothing short of a miracle. Slowly, clapping was started until everyone was standing out of their seats, a roaring ovations pouring down on the lower level.

A smile dominated Bruce's face as he stood, his hands clapping excitedly. Even from where his seat was, he could see the pride that shown from his friend's face. He was lapping up the reception and enjoying every moment of it. And he deserved every second of it.

Glancing back up to the screen to take another look at the restored Matt Hagan, Bruce's clapping lost a beat. A frown appeared on his face as he continued to stare at the image, his hands slowing their beat until they stilled against each other. Was it just him, or was there something on the actor's face? From what he could make out, there appeared to be something quite viscous on the man's cheek, running down it and onto the bed.

_What in the world?_

* * *

Thomas Elliot beamed as he made slow circles, trying to face each and every person raining down praise on him. At long last, his creation, his masterpiece was on full display. He had been dreaming for weeks of this moment and finally, here he was, the star, the man revolutionizing the world of surgery with every breath he took. It was overwhelming.

Well, not too overwhelming. He had been expecting this very reaction and was quite pleased to be proven right.

"Thank you, thank you," he said with barely concealed glee. Any moment now, investors would be fighting their way onto the operation floor, demanding that he take their money for further development of his facial cream. Of course, he would have to reprimand them on sterile etiquette and shoo them back to their seats, but not before telling them to meet him later to negotiate the dollar amount. It was a scene that he had played over and over in his head once he had the go-ahead for the operation.

That was when a new murmuring occurred, though not as awed as the previous one. In fact, Elliot would say it sounded...concerned? Frowning, the redhead looked in the direction of the changing tone. There was a group of people from what he could see and they all seemed to be pointing towards the large televisions that hung over his head. They must have been wondering about Hagan's face, surely.

"Dr. Elliot?" the scrub nurse suddenly spoke, a hint of urgency in her voice. "You need to see this."

"What is it?" he growled as he turned around. It was at that moment, he realized something was extremely wrong. The nurse was pointing to the actor's face, alarm growing stronger and stronger in her eyes as she darted them from the patient to the doctor. Staring, Elliot felt his heart drop. Matt Hagan's face, it was...it was..._melting._

But...but that couldn't be right! Hagan's face should be corrected, revealing only the handsome features of the actor. Yet there was a waxy quality in his skin that was only continuing to intensify, sliding down both sides of his face. "No," he spoke softly as he reached out with one hand and slid it against the goop, trying to push it back to its original place. It seemed to work as one side of Hagan's face went back to the way it had been. However, when Elliot moved his hand back, he stared in horror as he saw an indention covering half of the man's face, a perfect replica of his hand print.

And then the melting began again, flowing over his hand print and sliding back down onto the bed. "No!" he said louder as he began using both hands to scoop the goo back onto Hagan's face, reaching over the actor's body with one arm and trying to fight against the every expanding pool of goop.

_This can't be happening! This _can't _be happening! _Elliot shouted in his head. Glancing up at the petrified nurse, he barked, "Don't just stand there; help me!" Snapping out of her daze, the nurse rushed forward and tried to help the redhead fight against this growing, sickening sight, her hands fumbling with the melting gunk.

And yet, they fought it in vain. What once was just occurring on Hagan's face began spreading down his neck. When Elliot tried to stop the flow there, it began appearing on the man's shoulders. Then the chest, arms, and abdomen. Before he knew it, what was once an A-list Hollywood actor was a mass of melting slime.

And the only thing that Elliot could hear in his mind were the frantic screams of his own thoughts.


	6. Party Crasher

Everything was dark and murky. A sense of dullness enveloped Matt Hagan, leaving him floating in this void of nothingness. The anesthesia had to be causing this, or so he thought. But then, why did he feel conscious? Didn't anesthesia knock a person out? Perhaps he was just finally coming out of his sedation and hadn't opened his eyes yet. Yeah, that had to be it.

Still though, that murky feeling was making him nauseous. In fact, he was nauseous, bloated, and feeling completely crappy. This had better been a side-effect of that damn gas, otherwise he was gonna puke right on that smarmy doctor of his when he showed up, maybe the nurse too while he was at it.

A moan left his lips then, his voice sounding quite raspy. Geez, he must've been asleep for a long time. Ugh, he needed this fog in his head to clear up already.

A ray of light appeared before his eyes then as he cracked his eyelids open. It was painfully bright, making the actor squeeze his eyes shut and eliciting another groan from him. Raising a hand up, he pressed it against his eyelids to soothe the irritating, burning sensation.

_Huh, that's odd_. Matt didn't recall his fingers feeling so swollen. They were much larger than before and it felt as if they were filled up with some kind of liquid. Was it swelling? Why was his hand swollen? No, that was it, couldn't be it. There was some sort of medical term that he vaguely recalled. What did those doctors guys call it again? He had been on a medical drama early in his career and he had the term thrown around him so much, he had damn near memorized it. Eggama? Exama? Edema! That was it! He had edema in his hand, so that explained why they felt strange.

Lowering his hand down, Matt tried again to open his eyes, seeing light pour into his sight. He squinted in response and slowly let his eyes adjust, widening them as he became more and more comfortable.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, and using his arms to hold his torso up on what was a cold, metal, operating table. The doctors and nurses must've moved him onto this for the operation. Still, if they moved him beforehand, you'd think they could do it to a more comfortable bed afterwards.

Smacking his lips loudly, Matt turned to a side, moving his legs to he could dangle them over the side of the table. That bloated feeling was still presence and was starting to get really annoying. Seriously, he was gonna have some words with someone about this. And what about the room! Was it just him or did it seem smaller?

A beam of light caught his eye then, causing the actor to turn his head and catch sight of a mirror hanging on the wall. Hey, he could see how he looked now. An eager feeling began welling up within Matt at the thought. Dropping his feet to the floor and standing up, he plodded over to the mirror, anticipating seeing his familiar, handsome features again. Oh, he couldn't wait!

Standing in front of it, the reflection he got was _not_ his face. Instead, a brownish-tan monstrosity stared back at him with pupiless yellow eyes. Its hairless skin was oddly-formed, especially the chin that expanded out like a wrinkled bullfrog's. Its overly elongated mouth was gaped open slightly, revealing misshapen, out-of-place teeth.

"What the…" Matt said, the monster mimicking him in the mirror. Taken back, he flinched backwards, the monster once more copying him. A horrifying thought came to the actor then, one that he desperately hoped was wrong. Shakily, he raised a hand up towards the mirror to confirm his thought when he finally saw what he had first perceived as a swollen hand. The same brownish-tan colored his hand. In fact, he could only count four misshapen, claw-like fingers.

Immediately, Matt dropped his gaze down to look at the rest of his body, releasing a horrified gasp. What once had been a muscularly-defined body was now a giant blob of what was best described as hardened mud. "No…" he whispered softly, taking a step back, and then another.

The back of his foot then hit the table behind him. "NO!" Matt screamed as he whipped around and slammed the back of his enlarged fist against the side of the table. The table flew off the floor and crashed loudly against the wall before collapsing to the floor in shambles. An animalistic cry tore from the man's mouth as he swung his arms wildly, his body spinning as he did so. His hand smashed into the furniture of the room, breaking them into pieces. The walls took the punishment better, showing no worse for wear.

And then Matt came to a stop as he once more caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. On instinct, he slammed a fist into the glass, shattering it. Bringing his hands up to his head and clutching the top of his skull with them, he let out an inhuman scream that echoed throughout the room.

* * *

Bullock leaned back into his seat, his new rookie chauffeuring him in their squad car. They were out on patrol and so far the hispanic woman had proven him wrong about women drivers. So far. More driving like this and he wouldn't have to worry about driving again. It'd be just like his early days when his first partner was hellbent on driving their squad car. He never had a problem with that as it let him enjoy his morning coffee without having to adhere to the rules of the road.

"How ya doin', Rook?" the large man asked as he looked out the windshield. Things had been quiet so far on this patrol, his first with Montoya. And so far his new partner had been very quiet around him. Probably was still in awe of his rank. Being a Sergeant did that to people.

"I'm fine, Sir," Montoya answered immediately. She was sitting stiffly in the car, as if she were trying to be at attention even while on her backside.

"Good to hear. If you have any questions, you let me know. I'll teach ya everything I know about these streets."

"Thank you, Sir." Nothing else, eh? Another thing she was proving wrong to him. Didn't women always yap a guy's ear off? You know, talking about feelings and girly stuff? She was just going to sit there and drive and not talk? Well that was boring.

"You know you're pretty quiet over there," he commented. "Anything on your mind, Rook?"

Montoya did not take her eyes off the road. "None at all, Sir. Just keeping an eye out for trouble."

"Sure you want to do that? In a town like this, you don't want to be looking for trouble. It's got plenty of it in spades." Bullock glanced out the window, taking in the sight of the Gotham streets. "You'll find more than you'd like before too long."

"But that's our job, isn't it?" the woman responded with certainty. "We find criminals and stop them from causing further trouble."

"All I'm saying is that you don't have to actually look for it. Once upon a time, there was a crime happenin' at every street corner. Ya couldn't make it a block before you had to stop and break up a robbery-in-progress. So don't go trying to find a disturbance; they usually end up finding you."

"So what are you saying that we should do? Ignore our responsibilities?"

"Not that. Only to pick your battles wisely, Rook," he replied. "We can't stop every crime. Believe me, I wish we could. I wish we had that power. But we don't, so we settle on what we can do. You may not like it. Heck, I don't like it, but that's the way it is."

He could tell by the tightening of her jaw that she was not in complete agreement with him. Still, he had more to say that just some speech he pulled out of his ass.

"Don't get me wrong though. Sometimes the guy who's getting robbed deserves it. Little karma never hurt nobody. 'Sides, if you want to be a bleedin' heart, there are better professions for that. Like social workers."

Yep, that was his good deed for the day. Giving sage advice to a greenhorn in return for being given a ride. What more could you ask for?

"I am beginning to wonder how you live with yourself," the Rook muttered under her breath, but Bullock heard her just fine.

"It's not as hard as you think," he answered, leaning his seat back. "Two cold ones a day, one in the morning and the other before bed. Plenty of donuts and you're living the dream. Now keep an eye out and wake me if you see something. I had to fix my neighbor's car alarm last night. Went off at all hours of the night until I used my .22 and put a stop to that."

"I hope that's a wrench you're talking about."

"_All available, report to the Bertinelli Residence. We have a 10-25, I repeat, we have a 10-25 at the Bertinelli Residence, over._"

"See Rook? I told ya trouble would pop up without us lookin' for it," Bullock quipped smugly.

"But it's just a Breaking and Entering, Sergeant," Montoya replied.

Bullock slowly turned in his seat and gave a hard stare at his rookie. "Bertinelli is mob," he reprimanded her. "Anyone that has the balls to hit a man like that ain't just stopping over for a cup of sugar. There's gonna be a lot of hurt and dead people there, so it ain't just gonna be a couple squad cars. There's gonna be fire engines and ambulances, most likely a lot of them. Now if your ready to get off your high-horse, remove that bug up your ass and get us south side."

* * *

Franco Bertinelli was a made man. One of Maroni's top lieutenants, the man was one of the Italian's top advisors and confidants when he was lording over Gotham's streets. If there was someone in this city that knew what Maroni was up to, it would be him.

A gentle breeze blew up against the Batman as he stood on the top of Bertinelli's high rise apartment. The entire top floor of the building was one giant residence, complete with seven bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms, an entertainment room, office, swimming pool, and ballroom. The ballroom was regularly used by Bertinelli to entertain large parties, much like the one happening tonight. It was a who's who of the entire Bertinelli family, a reunion in the making for the last several months.

Batman could see it all as he stared through the glass enclosure atop the roof, giving him a perfect view of the party. An absurdly long table sat in the middle of the black-and-white-checkered floor, men and women in dressed in high-end suits and dresses. Servers were constantly taking away plates covered in food scraps and returning with recently-cooked main courses and side dishes. The wine was flowing free between all the guests as servers periodically refilled each and every glass.

There were bodyguards along the outer walls of the room, each one watching the dinner stoically. They were mostly there to provide security should someone get too drunk and attempt to get too excited. Also if someone forced their way into the party, though that was a rare enough occurrence. There had also been a few guards up on the roof, but each one had been dispatched silently by the vigilante, their unconscious bodies littering the building's top.

Unfortunately, Batman wasn't the only person here. Though he was the only person standing on this building, he could feel those ever watchful eyes on him. He would have to deal with them sometime soon; right now there were more pressing matters that needed to be attended to. They would watch him as he worked and maybe they'd realize that he was not a man to be trifled with.

If only it were that simple.

For now, let them watch. Stepping backwards several feet, he came to a stop a good distance away from the glass enclosure, steeled his nerve, and then went charging at the glass. At the last second, he leapt up into the air, extending a leg out as he let his momentum and gravity propel him to the glass. Aiming his foot to the side of one of the glass panels, where it was at its weakest, the force of his landing caused it crack and shatter simultaneously. The vigilante fell into the room, landing on the long table in a crouch as shattered pieces of glass rained down on him. Cries and gasps of surprise cut off all the chatter of the room's occupants.

Looking up, the Batman stared down at the head of the table, right at that shocked stare of Franco Bertinelli. Satisfied that the man seemed rooted to his seat, the vigilante made a quick survey of the ballroom, taking note of the bodyguards pulling out their guns and aiming them right at him. They were all slowly approaching the table, a step at a time. They weren't too keen on opening fire since they stood a chance of hitting some of the their boss' guests, though that could change at a moment's notice.

Staying in his crouched position, his cape hiding his body as one hand reached up to the gauntlet covering the other, the Batman greeted, "It's time we had a talk, Bertinelli."

Bertinelli seemed to stiffen in his chair before he relaxed, his eyes darting to the slowly approaching bodyguards. "You just crashed the wrong party, Batman," he said smugly, a smirk working its way under his mustache.

The dark vigilante ignored the remark. "You have information I want and you will give it to me. How much pain you want to endure before you tell me is all up to you."

"I think you misunderstand the situation. See, I've got a room full of guns and they're all pointed right at you. From where I'm sitting, I don't think I'll be feeling any pain whatsoever."

"Assuming that your men all hit me and not miss and hit your guests. Of course, one could hit you too," he countered. "Is that a risk you're willing to take?"

That made Bertinelli hesitant, but he seemed to get over it quickly. "I am."

The vigilante let those words sink into the minds of Bertinelli's guests, each one looking to their neighbor in disbelief. "That's all I needed to know," he grunted out. At that, Batman hit a button on his gauntlet, which sent out an electric impulse that knocked out all the lights in the room, plunging it into darkness. Leaping off the table to his left, the lenses in his cowl immediately adjusted to the dark by activating the night vision program. His vision turned green as he flew through the air at one of the bodyguards, slamming his fist into the man's face and knocking him to the floor. The back of the bodyguard's head hit the tile floor hard, effectively knocking him out.

Reaching to his belt with both hands, he withdrew multiple bat-shaped shuriken and spun around. By now, he could clearly see men were standing up at the table, drawing their weapons. So the bodyguards weren't the only ones packing heat. With a swing of his arms, he sent the shuriken flying through the air. A couple of them made contact with the men's hands, knocking their guns out of their grasps and leaving them clutching at their appendages in pain. One hit one of the weapon-wielding guests in the back of the head, knocking him unconscious as his body collapsed onto the table. The rest hit bodyguard and standing guest alike in the face, having the same effect as the man on the table.

Dashing to his right, Batman launched himself at another guard, slamming a bent elbow into his face, causing the man to cry out as he jerked backwards. Grabbing the guard by his shirt, the vigilante spun around in a circle, dragging the man with him before he lifted him right off the ground and threw him through the air. The guard screamed as he flew across the room, crashing into another guard and knocking them both to the floor in a heap.

The Batman kept moving heading for the guard standing near the foot of the table. Diving towards the floor, his hands made contact with the tiles and he flung his feet up into the air as he began a flip. Just as his feet began to make their descent, the vigilante bent his arms down before he pushing off against the floor, springing off of it as he pressed the sides of his feet together. His feet slammed into the guard on the side of his face, sending him flying off his feet and crashing to the floor, the Batman landing on the opposite side of his fallen form gracefully.

By now, the men with the guns had begun shooting, causing all the unarmed people to cry out in fear and duck down to hide under the table, leaving only the guards and armed guests standing at the table on their feet. Growling, the Batman pulled out two bolas from his belt and began rotating his wrists as they began to spin. Throwing them, the dark-clad man sent the bolas flying through the air until they made contact with two of the armed guests, wrapping around them until one of the heavy metal balls smashed into their faces, knocking them out and causing them to collapse to the floor.

That cleared up about half of the room, leaving the only threats towards the head of the table, where Bertinelli was. The roar of gunfire filled the vigilante's ears, causing him to duck down as bullets whizzed through the air over him. So they had an idea where he was now. Reaching to his belt again, he pulled out and launched another volley of shuriken at them. This time, only one made contact with a guard's face, rendering him unconscious as he felt to the floor. For the others, the projectiles struck the men's hands, sending their guns falling to the floor and clattering on it as they let out howls of pain. Charging forward, the Batman leapt onto the table, took a giant step across the wooden surface, and launched himself towards the left side of it, aiming for two guards that were standing close to each other.

As he landed in front of him, his gloved hands lashed out, gripping either man by the side of their heads, and then forcing them together. A cracking sound was made as their skulls collided, Batman releasing his hold on them and letting them drop to the floor harmless. Without hesitating, he shot towards the nearest guard, who was turned towards him having heard his comrades getting attacked. Going in low, the Batman threw an uppercut at the man, landing the blow on his chin, which snapped the man's head backwards as he lifted off the floor. He landed a moment later, laying on the ground stunned by the punch.

Drawing a leg up, Batman pivoted on the other foot, spinning his body around and lashing out with the drawn leg at the next guard, the heel of his foot connecting with the side of his face and sending him spinning into the nearby wall. All that left now was one last guard, to whom the vigilante leapt toward as he finished his spin, reaching out with his left hand. The moment his hand grabbed the side of the guard's face, the dark-clad man twisted his torso and forced the guard to the table, slamming his head against it before tossing him aside like trash. As luck would have it, the last guard fell on top of the stunned one, both of their skulls bashing against each other and knocking them unconscious.

Finally, the Batman turned his attention to Bertinelli, who was frozen in his chair. Closing the distance between them, the vigilante, grabbed the Italian man's collar and twisted it as he rotated his wrist to a side. Pulling up, Bertinelli began to gag in his seat his arms flailing at his sides.

Deactivating the night vision, the vigilante found he was just in time as the backup generators for the floor finally kicked in, flooding the room with light. A cursory glance told him that all threats had been eliminated, leaving him with his target and the frightened guests hiding beneath the table.

All except for one.

A woman with long, dark hair was slowly rising from her place further down the table. Both of her hands were pressed onto the wooden furniture, her face twisted into...awe? From what the Batman could tell, there wasn't any fear in her. She was completely engrossed by the sight of him towering over Bertinelli and seemed oblivious to the bullet holes and unconscious guards and guests around her. Odd. She didn't seem hurt, her strapless, light purple dress looking no worse for wear, and she didn't appear to be a threat. Not that she could have hidden a weapon on her body considering her tight dress. She wasn't even making a move to pick up one of the many scattered weapons on the floor, so focus was she on him. Choosing to ignore her, the vigilante returned his focus right to Bertinelli.

"Now, let's try this again," he growled.

"I ain't tell you nothing!" Bertinelli shouted, glaring up at him. Now that just wouldn't do. Turning his head away, he saw one of the walls was mostly glass, a large cross-section of window panels with a glass door allowing entry to a balcony just beyond it. With his other hand, the vigilante grabbed his target by the shoulder and hauled him out of his seat. Twisting his body around, he threw the man at the glass paneling, his body crashing through it and landing on the balcony with the broken shards of glass.

Storming out of the ballroom and towards Bertinelli, Batman grabbed the man by the back of his shirt and dragged him towards the railing. With a grunt, he lifted Bertinelli up into the air and hung him over the edge. With one hand, the vigilante grabbed the mobster by one of his wrists and then released the back of the man's collar, causing him to drop down until he was dangling by his arm. A petrified scream tore out of the man's lips as his legs began kicking around beneath him.

Already, Batman could feel his arm straining to hold up the man, but he could hold out for a little bit. "Are you sure you don't want to talk?" he asked calmly.

"You're crazy! You can't do this!" Bertinelli screamed as he turned to look at him.

"Can't I? Careful what you say to me, Franco. My arm is getting _very_ tired."

That seemed to convince Bertinelli just who was in control of this situation, this thrashing body going limp as he vainly tried to reach up and grab the viglante's arm, an attempt to make sure he didn't suddenly drop. "Alright, alright! I'll talk! Just don't let me fall!"

"Good. And Franco, now isn't a good time to be lying to me."


	7. Look At Me!

A lot of credit goes to Anonymous Void for this chapter. He took over this chapter when I was busy and he did a pretty decent job. I did help with Hagan lines though, what with Ron Perlman's voice going through my head, but for the most part, it was all him.

* * *

Have you ever had a dream? One that could change not only you and every living person, but the world? Would you dismiss it upon waking as nothing more than an extravagant imagination, or would you reach out and seize it? And if you did it reach out and it was within your grasp, how would you feel? Would you feel elation? Jubilation? Satisfaction?

If it was all of the above then how would you feel if that dream that was right there in the palm of your hand, and then suddenly, without warning, snatched out of your grasp? Or perhaps it crumbled apart and slid through your fingers. What would you feel? Would you feel anger? Despair?

Rage?

Dr. Thomas Carmichael Elliot, C.E.O. of Elliot Pharmaceuticals, world renown surgeon, and a member of Forbes' Top 25 Wealthiest Men in the World could not tell you precisely what he was feeling at this very moment as he stood before the accusing eyes of the Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors, but he could tell from all the emotions he felt, only one was truly clear.

And it was rage.

It was rage at this foreseen outcome. It was rage at the inexplicable failure that _shouldn't have happened_. It was rage that these...these..._insects_ dare sit before him, lording their self-righteous anger, and handing down _judgement_ upon him. And worst of all, it was rage at the fact that one of those pairs of eyes belonged to the only man that he reasonably considered a friend.

Though to his credit, Bruce did not look at him accusingly, but with more...sympathy. In a way. Yet that was pouring salt into these very raw wounds of his than any of those scowls aimed at him.

It had been fourteen days since he had been on top of the world and poised to change it, molding the future with these medically-trained hands. It had been fourteen days since he had been set up to show off his brilliance to the gathering of living fossils and prostitutes posing as made men and women, the wallets and purses clutched tightly in their bony fingers. And it had been fourteen days since Matt Hagan, A-list star and celebrity, lay upon his operating table as his ticket to remaking the world.

It had been fourteen days since his dream shattered. It had been slightly less than fourteen days since the investigation began. Eleven days since Matt Hagan and disappeared from the face of the earth. Two days since his childhood and only friend Bruce gave him the call that he had to present himself before the Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors. Three minutes and forty seconds that he had been standing here as he awaited the beginning or conclusion of this witch hunt.

"Dr. Thomas Carmichael Elliot," William Dithers intoned through his withered lips. "What do you have to say in regards to this tragedy you have inflicted upon Wayne Enterprises?"

Elliot held his head high. No matter what happened, he would stay strong amongst this torrent of outrage. "In my regards, nothing. Before the inclusion of Wayne Enterprises, this project was advancing at a phenomenal rate. Everything up until then had not only been encouraging, but had gone without incident until your company's involvement. With your inclusion, I had staff that came directly from Wayne Enterprises into my laboratories who may have—"

"You dare cast blame on Wayne Enterprises?!" Dithers demanded, specks of spit flying out of his mouth. "It was _you_ that approached this company claiming to have a drug that was free of side effects."

"And it was before your involvement," Elliot retorted. "My researchers could not have been responsible for what happened to Mr. Matthew Hagan."

"According to the medical review of Matthew Hagan, it was discovered that he had an allergic reaction to a compound already in your product's formula _before_ the involvement of Wayne Enterprises," Lauren Granger remarked. "As per the rules and regulation for submission of a new drug to the Federal Drug Administration, it falls to Elliot Pharmaceuticals to have researched potential adverse effects that this compound may have had. That pins this whole incident squarely on you, Dr. Elliot."

_You conniving little slut._ He didn't say this, of course. No, that would have been digging this hole he found himself in even deeper. Still, he felt resentment towards this woman whom he had counted on supporting him in this endeavor.

"At the time of the operation, I was unaware of this...allergy. A full medical background and history was performed on Mr. Hagan and this allergy never surfaced."

"How long have you been researching this drug?" a board member questioned.

It was damning of him to do this, but he paused for a second. Then, reluctantly, "...six years."

"Combine that with the eight months that Wayne Enterprises has been invested in this project, that should have been more than enough time to discover this potential adverse side effect," the board member pressed.

Who was this guy, a doctor? Elliot wouldn't put it pass Bruce to have an actual medical doctor as head of his medical wing of Wayne Enterprises, but still. Who did this man think he was?

"Before now, there were no reported cases of any human being being allergic to this compound," he argued.

"Is that so?" Dithers spoke up. From the Cryptkeeper's tone, Elliot could feel it in his bones that he wouldn't like what this shriveled idiot would say. "According to a report by the Institute of Medicine, there have been many documented cases of this allergic reaction. You can find it in this IOM report which dates back," at this, the old men smiled, looking reminiscent of a shark, "to three years ago."

It took everything he had to not react to that. But he felt it, oh did he feel it. If there were any questions about his emotional state before, there were none now. Rage. Pure rage was what he was feeling now, but he refused to show a hint of it. An Elliot never shows weakness. He had learned that, naturally, the hard way.

When Elliot remained silent, Lucius Fox stood up to speak, "As it stands, in a court of law, Wayne Enterprises cannot and will not be found culpable for Mr. Matthew Hagan's accident. Therefore, it is not incumbent upon this board to accept the consequences as resulted by the actions of Dr. Elliot." The self-righteous prick paused to pick up a glass of water, sipping from it before placing it back down on the table. "From what I've been informed by the American Medical Association, Dr. Elliot stands to lose his licence to practice medicine in the State of New Jersey."

Elliot did his best not to show that his fists were clenched. The most obvious sign of his...disappointment was the clenching of his jaw. That medical license meant so much to him, the only thing that he could say was truly his. He had _earned_ that license and his medical degree. Still, there were other states and it wouldn't pose too much of a problem to get licensed there.

It did not help the sting, though. At the very least, he still had Elliot Pharmaceuticals. Money would be no issue.

"Which leads us to Elliot Pharmaceuticals."

_What?_

"The Board of Elliot Pharmaceuticals is initiating protocols for the removal of Dr. Thomas Elliot as its CEO," Fox continued.

No… No! They couldn't do this! They didn't have the right! Where would these bloodsucking parasites be without people like him? And they thought they could take his family's—no, _his_ company away from him?!

"With the allegations of medical misconduct and the actions taken by Elliot Pharmaceuticals, it is now time for Wayne Enterprises to determine where it stands on this incident. The Board can vote to distance itself from Dr. Elliot or support him as co-sponsor of his product. The vote will be a simple yea-nay vote. All for the distancing of Wayne Enterprises?"

One by one, each member of the Wayne board vote "Yea." With each vote, Elliot could hear a nail being hammered into his coffin. At the same time, he was not surprised. It was predictable that these leeches would do anything to increase their standing, even if it came at his expense.

There was one, however, that he kept his eyes glued on more so than the others. Bruce wouldn't go along with this, he knew it. Even if this was a losing battle, he knew that Bruce would have his back, like old times.

Yet, for the first time in his life, he could not read Bruce and thus was unable to determine how the other man would vote.

One by one, the yea votes stacked up until finally it was Bruce's turn. From his position, Bruce looked him in the eye and Elliot felt the need to stand tall, to be worthy of this vote. He straightened his shoulders and awaited Bruce's verdict, ignoring everyone else.

"Yea."

If the other votes had been nails in a coffin, this was a sledgehammer to his chest. Emotion—weakness—appeared for the first time on his face as his mouth dropped open, his eyes staring at Bruce, not even comprehending the other votes. As if unable to take his gaze, Bruce...Wayne looked away.

How...how could he? How could Wayne do this to him? After everything… And he didn't even have the guts to look him in the eyes! No, there was Gotham's infamous playboy sitting there in front of him and looking anywhere else but at him. Like a coward. Like the coward he always knew Wayne to be. Whenever there was trouble, Wayne was always the first to ditch. Always the one leaving others with the problem.

He didn't listen as the vote concluded, unanimous in their decision. He didn't listen as that asshole Fox began to speak again, his words meaningless to the disgraced doctor. It was as good as over now. With Wayne Enterprises backing out and his own parasitic board cutting him loose, there was nothing left for him now.

A hand came down to rest on his shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts. There, in all his pompous glory, stood Wayne, a looked of mocking sadness etched on his face. "I'm sorry, Tommy," he said with false sincerity.

"Sorry?" he repeated. "You're...sorry?" He rudely shrugged off Wayne's hand and put some distance between them. "You don't even know the meaning of the word. You've just taken everything from me…but you're _SORRY_?! What a riot."

Spinning on his heels, he marched out of the boardroom, head held high because he would not give any of these vermin the pleasure of seeing him destroyed.

"You're not sorry, Wayne," he muttered to himself, eyes hardening. "Not yet."

* * *

Teeth ripped through the sub sandwich, but eyes never left the mess of paperwork that made its home on Gordon's desk. It was long after what normal people called lunch time, but for him, he could go a ways before his stomach complained from being empty, such as now.

It wouldn't be the first time he skipped lunch, but it was welcomed that he wasn't doing such a thing today. He would have to thank Essen later for bringing him this.

Now then, where were they on the Landis case? Did they have everything set up with that one? The DA would not be pleased if they missed something that could cost them a conviction. This was one in the making for several months and Gordon didn't want it screwed up at the last minute.

Okay, they had DNA. Four eyewitnesses. A mess of circumstantial evidence that he was going to have to go through one more time to make sure that there was nothing that could compromise the case. So far it looked solid, but any good defense attorney could find a crack somewhere if they looked hard enough.

He'll look over the circumstantial in a bit. First, he needed to check in on the Ramis homicide, see what was going on with that. Ruthless case there. Looked like a robbery turned bad and by bad, he meant the victim was gunned down execution style. The men on that case had about a dozen suspects and already he could feel the headache forming. No identified murder weapon yet, new leads were coming in at a trickle, and several alibis were rock solid.

Hopefully the Ramis case wouldn't go cold, but there weren't enough hands and feet in Gotham to count how many times that happened.

Without even a knock, the door to his office opened followed by a voice belonging to a set of hands and feet that Gordon wished did not belong in Gotham.

"Surprise, Gordo. It's your favorite IA agent."

"And I'm your favorite commissioner, I get it," Gordon grumbled as Forbes let himself in and made himself at home. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"Change the favorite into its opposite and you'd be spot on," Forbes quipped. "What I'm hear to tell you is that your finances checked out."

You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to tell that Forbes did not like admitting that. Gordon restrained himself from smirking at the IA agent's ire. Whatever victory he could get, he would take it.

"However, I am going to need to check the five years before these last five," Forbes continued and whatever sense of victory Gordon may have felt was thrown right out the window. No, it was not because he was hiding anything ,but did they really have to go through with these motions?

"Next thing you'll be asking me for is my birth certificate," he grumbled.

"Well now that you mention it..." Forbes was quick to pick up. "You know what, instead of the previous five, why not go for ten _and _your birth certificate? You can't be too careful with all these illegals running around, am I right?"

That son of a bitch. If this wasn't confirmation that Internal Affairs was full of sadists, he didn't know what was.

"Why so glum, Gordo? I thought we were starting to make some real progress here," Forbes continued.

"How much longer is this going to take?" he demanded.

"Why the rush? Aren't we having fun? I know I am."

"Fun doing what? Not finding some shred of evidence that implicates my guilt? You have a weird sense of fun, Forbes."

"The fun is always in the chase, Gordon. I thought you knew that." Any cheer that was in the other man's face had dropped away leaving behind a more unpleasant replacement. Then again, Forbes was always unpleasant. "It does not matter how long it takes, there is always something there and I will find it, of that you can be guaranteed."

"You sounded like a cop for a moment," Gordon slipped out.

"Of course I am. You of all people should know that a badge does not make a criminal any less guilty."

And didn't he know that.

"I'll get you the records and the certificate," he muttered.

"Glad to know we're on the same page." Forbes smirked and for a moment, Gordon wondered how different Forbes was from any of the other cops in the department. He had done his own checks on the man and similar to what Forbes was finding about him, he found nothing on Forbes.

The only thing he could do at this point was grin and bear it, no matter how much he disliked it. Hopefully Forbes would get tired of this charade and give up. As small a hope as that was, it was all he had.

"Since I know you don't have the certificate on you right now, I'll come back for it and the records later. I'll give you a couple hours to do it since I'm such a trusting guy." Forbes practically swaggered out of his office and Gordon had to fight them temptation of pulling out his gun. He didn't because who knew how many vultures among the police force would pounce on him if he did. Oh, there were so many enemies he had in the department who would love nothing more than for him to lose his cool.

Glancing over at the sandwich that he had been eating earlier, he suddenly didn't feel so hungry anymore.

* * *

As the sun set on the City of Night, former Dr. Elliot drove out of the city limits towards the Elliot estate that his family had called home for generations. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and pressed down on the accelerator, wanting to get away as fast as he could from the city known to crush dreams and into the safety of his ancestral home.

The Elliots had always been one of the big families of Gotham, sharing prestige with the Waynes and the Crownes since the city's inception. It was almost like a brand name; everyone knew about the Elliots. Everyone knew about their prestige and their wealth.

Everybody knew of Thomas Elliot.

Starting today, it seemed like that was about to change. From this point on, it appeared that of the founding families, the Elliots were about to be driven out. The city that he had grown up in, to a degree, was expelling him. Who knew how long it would be until the company that his family had created was torn apart by those leeches that dared to call themselves the board of directors?

And speaking of leeches, how long until Wayne made a grab for whatever was left of Elliot Pharmaceuticals after those board members were through with it? Should he be surprised that perhaps Wayne had some brain cells in that empty skull of his? It was brilliant, actually. Drive him out of business, get his hands on his brain child, then market it as his own to revolutionize the world of cosmetics.

Well played, Wayne, well played.

With a sharp left turn, he pulled onto the driveway and continued the trek to his home. It wasn't a long drive, not at the speeds he was maintaining. Without even thinking about it, he came to a stop near the front entrance of the massive mansion that was only equaled in size by Wayne Manor itself.

Of the big families in Gotham, only the Elliots and the Waynes had the wealth to go toe to toe with one another.

Slamming the car door behind him harshly, he marched his way into his home, dismissing the servants immediately so that he could stew in his disastrous failure alone without having to suffer their low-income presences.

In the den, he headed for the liquor cabinet and grabbed the first bottle of alcohol he could get in his hands. He poured an excessive amount of a brownish-gold drink into the nearest glass and without even putting the bottle down, snatched the glass up and drained it, feeling the burn at the back of his throat. Wiping the back of his hand against his mouth, he poured another glass all the while heading to the couch.

It was going to be a long, alcohol-induced, intoxicating night for Thomas Elliot.

He glared straight ahead as he continued to drink his sorrows. There was a lamp on nearby, its dim lighting preventing him from being consumed in darkness. Didn't even know when he had turned it on. Didn't even care when and if he had.

He took another swallow of alcohol, ignoring the sound of the ticking grandfather clock that was becoming more and more obnoxious with every tick it made. He tightened his grip on his glass and poured another drink. This time he was sipping at the warm drink, nursing his way through it.

As time dragged on, the grandfather clock becoming more and more irritating, he slowly calmed down, though his anger only cooled. It was ready to flare up at the least provocation and...and…

Ever get the feeling of hair standing on the back of your neck? It felt like he was having that same sensation right now. Like someone was also staring at him. Whether that was the cause, or in addition to, he did not know, but he wasn't liking it. Not one bit.

Frowning, the sense that he was being watched increased. His looked around the room, but found nothing in disarray. Turning around in his seat, he looked behind him and—

A giant hand descended upon him, large fingers wrapping around his torso. A crushing grip squeezed the air right out of Elliot's lungs, his arms digging into his sides as his bottle and glass falling onto the couch and spilling its contents onto the expensive material. He found himself lifted right off into the air and then a rush of wind as his couch was swept aside and sent flying into a wall was a loud crash. The next thing Thomas knew, his back had been slammed against another wall, sending an explosion of pain ripping through his body and a cry of terror out of his mouth.

Eyes wide, he looked straight ahead and found himself staring at a monster. It was bald and clay-colored with the chin of a bullfrog. The thing's body was misshaped all over and, Jesus, it was huge! Most terrifying, though, was it's rage-filled eyes boring into him. "You scum," it growled at him. "Look at what you did to me!"

"What I…?" he gasped. What was that thing? What was it doing in his home? And...why did it sound familiar?

"Yeah, what _you_ did. Can't figure it out, doc? Here, let me refresh your memory!" And with that, it swung around and released its hold on Elliot, sending him flying through the air until he collided with the wall on the opposite side of the room. Gravity took over then and dropped him to the floor in a moaning, pain-filled heap.

Oh God, that hurt! The air had been ripped out of his lung! He gasped for precious air and he pushed himself up, his arms trembling beneath him. He raised his head up to watch in horror as the monster stomped its way towards him. Coming to a stop in front of the doctor, the monster raised one of its legs and slammed it right down on his back, pain screaming through his body.

"I bet you remember me now, _don't ya_?" it said viciously. "It's me, your old pal, Matt Hagan."

Elliot could barely comprehend the words the creature said, but...but it did have the same coloring as his facial cream. Maybe darker, but the texture was similar if it was dried out. And now that the name had been given to him, the familiarity of the voice clicked and...and…

Dear God, what had he done?

"Matthew?" he choked out. "Oh God, Matthew… What happened…?"

"Don't you know? It was that damn operation of yours! You said it would fix me. You promised me. NOW LOOK AT ME!" Hagan's rage bounded throughout the room, making him sound even more enraged. Removing his foot, he bent down and snatched Elliot off the floor, once more slamming him into the wall behind him. "LOOK! AT! ME! Do you call this fixed? Do you call this _fixed_?!"

Elliot had no choice but to look at Hagan and gaze upon the thing that he was responsible in creating. Fear and adrenaline were coursing through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest as it felt like Hagan could crush his body at any moment. His hands gripped at the grotesque hand that held him, softly sinking into the...flesh of Hagan, yet not quite penetrating.

"Now I'm going to give you a choice, doc," Hagan spat at in a low, deadly tone. "Either I can crush every bone in your worthless body, or I can slowly rip your skin off. Which will it be?"

"It wasn't my fault! I had no idea you had an allergy to the cream!" he exclaimed, squirming uselessly in Hagan's grip. "Nobody knew! If I had known, I would _never_ have let you put yourself in this position! You have to believe me!"

"Believe...you?" Hagan threw his head back and let out a self-mocking laugh. "Newsflash, doc, I already did. You're staring at the result right now!"

Elliot cried out as Hagan's grip tightened on him. "I swear, on my parents' graves, I didn't know! Nobody knew! Nobody could have known because they didn't have the information! The only people who could have…"

As he trailed off, Elliot's awareness of the situation faded as inspiration struck him. In his mind's eye, he could see that cryptkeeper with his smug, yet withered face gloating over him, telling him about the IOM report. Then that cunt, pretending that she had been his ally when really she had been plotting against him this whole time. But the worst offender...Wayne...

"...Wayne Enterprises."

"Oh, don't give me that load of bull," Hagan snapped. "This was your product, _yours_. What could those Wayne people possibly know more than you about it?"

"They...they had the final say in whether or not your operation went ahead as scheduled. Do you not think that they too would not have researched my facial cream? Think Hagan. Who benefits from..._this_ happening to you? They do."

When Hagan hesitated, Elliot pounced. "Do you know what happened today, Hagan? They kicked me out of my own company. They wanted my company. They want the cream for themselves. But how could they get rid of me unless something happened, something tragic, something like what happened to you occurred? Don't you see? They're using you. Just like they used me."

"You?" the former actor questioned. "How could they possibly have used you?"

"My company. The Wayne board has coveted it for years. They've been waiting all this time for a chance to take it over. So when I came to them for assistance with my cream and they found out about these potential side effects, they kept quiet, knowing that this would lead to my dismissal. In the process, they have stolen your life from you, just like they did mine."

Hagan's grip slackened for a moment before it tightened, though not as tight as it previously was. "And you're sure about this?" he asked, almost begging for Elliot to be right.

"What do I have to hide, Matthew? You are the one in control here. You can do whatever you want with me, but who was it that tried to help you? When Wayne Enterprises turned you away from getting the help that was yours from the start, who was there to get you what you deserved? They never wanted to help you Hagan. I did. And they extracted a price from both of us."

"I…" the misshapen man sputtered. "I...I should've known. Those corporate fatcats, they've always hated me. For standing up to their evil, capitalistic ways; for protecting the environment against their pollution. No, they won't get away with this."

"And they shouldn't," he told the giant soothingly. "You should extract a price from what they did to you. Take it out of their hides. Hold them responsible for their actions. They shouldn't be allowed to get away with this."

Suddenly, Elliot dropped to the floor. He gave an "oomph!" as he landed on his rear, but at least now he wasn't in Hagan's irrational grip anymore. Looking up, he saw Hagan's retreating from leaving the room.

Taking deep breaths, Elliot watched, the corner of his lips curling upwards. _Thomas, you had such a silver-tongue you_. Like before, Hagan was just as manipulable now as he was the day they met.

He had a pretty good idea where Hagan was heading, and maybe this was the alcohol in his system talking, but he needed to see this. He needed to watch as Wayne Enterprises fell around that traitor he had once called a friend.

First, perhaps a change of clothes. He had a coat somewhere around here that was appropriate for the occasion.


	8. Attack at Wayne Tower

The low hum of voices filled the lobby of Wayne Enterprises, a frequent occurrence at the multibillion dollar company. Seated at the front desk was Carol, a woman busy at work, at least that was the impression she wanted to give. There was only so much one could do before Solitaire was brought up onto the computer.

Today was shaping up to be a normal, every other kind of day, which meant boring. Of course, she preferred these kind of days when compared to that jerk of a Hollywood actor that had stormed in here demanding medical treatment. Carol had only been doing her job when the guy had exploded on her. A frown appeared on her face as she remembered the scene.

Matt Hagan had been considered a very handsome guy, but with that attitude, the scarring he had couldn't have happened to a better person. Perhaps this whole experience would humble him, though she doubted it. He was a Hollywood celebrity, notorious for being self-centered.

However, her boring day quickly changed in the coming moments as the sound of a car engine slowly grew louder. That wasn't too unusual since there was always some guy driving down the street in front of the corporate building at excessive speeds, and with a loud engine to boot. When the glass doors that allowed entry into the building shattered, Carol jerked her head up from her computer and stared in fright as she saw the dented front bumper of a car racing towards her.

Screaming, Carol knocked her chair over as she shot out of it, diving out of the front desk booth just before the car rammed into the station. The desk crumpled from the crash, the car coming to a halt.

Lying on the floor, her arms covering her head, Carol tilted her head to a side to get a better look at the car, slowly moving her arms so she could push herself up. From where she was, she couldn't see who was in the vehicle or if they were alright. Everyone else in the lobby was rooted to where they were, staring in rapt fascination at the scene.

Then, the driver's door opened. A low moan was heard as a hulking, clay-colored creature climbed out of the car. Horror appearing on her face, Carol watched as the monster extended itself to its full height before it roared, "_Wayne_!"

* * *

Bruce Wayne leaned back in his posh chair, letting out an aggrieved sigh. The day had gone by in a blur. First there was the board meeting to determine the fate of Tommy, then more damage control concerning the botched Hagan surgery. It was all a nightmare and it didn't look like it would be letting up anytime soon.

He had wanted Tommy to succeed here, he really did. But when everything went to hell, he was the one standing with the target on his back. Even with his company's minimal involvement considering the entire process Elliot Pharmaceuticals had gone through to get that cream to its current status, it was Wayne Enterprises that was taking the brunt of the blame. At least that's the impression he got from the media. It was odd though. Tommy was very methodical in his every action. Never had he rushed a product like he had this one, cutting corners where they never should've been cut. Did excitement overwhelm the redhead, or had he always made these sort of decisions that ultimately paid off rather than blown up in his face?

Regardless, Bruce was not going to take the fall for this. This was all on Tommy and he would have to face the consequences. Of course, his friend's last words were disheartening to say the least. Things would be tense between them for the foreseeable future; Tommy had always had difficulty letting go of grudges.

The wailing of an alarm interrupted his musings, jolting him back into his office. It was similar to the fire alarm, but there was a slight difference to it, one that immediately put the billionaire on edge. Shooting out a hand, he hit a portion of the desk towards the opposite side, pushing it down and retreating his hand so that a section of the desk began to rise. A panel appeared inside, containing three small monitors. Each one turned on, revealing a black-and-white image of portions of the building. It was the middle monitor that caught the dark-haired man's attention.

There was...something…rampaging in the lobby. He didn't recognize it at all, but it clearly wanted to cause harm. Standing up, Bruce made his way out of his office, finding the area outside of it empty. It seemed those emergency precautions that had been put in place since the Fries Incident were working beautifully. Every floor had an evacuation plan that led all employees out of the building in case there was an attack. When Fries had stormed the building, it had proven necessary that some contingency was needed to prevent that massacre from happening again.

Heading towards the nearest stairwell, Bruce shoved the door open and began climbing the stairs two at a time. Since his office was at the top, there was only two flights of stairs that led him to the roof access, to which he pushed open and let the evening air rush against him.

Another precaution he had taken since Fries, the dark-haired man had begun placing small staches of equipment throughout the city, one of which was right on top of Wayne Tower. Making his way towards the center of the roof, where a ten-foot cement stand sat as a base for the antenna that towered over him, Bruce went right to a small grey panel that hung on one of the walls. Opening the panel and finding a keypad, he typed in the correct numbers and a green light flashed. A portion of the wall slid backwards before moving to a side, revealing a small room. Staring into it, he found all of his weapon supplies neatly organized, from his shuriken, grapples, pre-prepared belts, and other various devices.

Yet his focus went right to his black armored suit even as he began to remove his tie.

* * *

People were running and screaming around him. Yeah, they should be. Matt would have wanted to run from him too, except, ya know, he was him.

"Where is he?!" he roared as he stomped over to a set of couches and chairs, grabbing them and tossing them across the room. "I want Wayne! Where is that snot-nosed bastard?! Someone answer me!"

Seeing a man in a suit sitting on the ground, staring up at him in horror, Matt growled and stormed his way to the terrified guy, snatching him up off the floor and holding him by his collar. "You better answer me, maggot; where is Wayne?" he snarled.

"I-I-I…" the man stammered. "H-his office?"

"Is he?" Matt demanded as he held the man higher up into the air. "You wouldn't be lying to me, right?"

"N-no!" the man cried out. "I swear, he has to be in his office! Please, don't kill me!"

Lowering him down so that he could shove his disfigured face into the sniving crony, Matt said, "Oh believe me, if you're wrong, I'll hunt you down and make you regret lying to me." Feeling that he had made his point clear, he swung his arm out and let go of the man, sending him screaming through the air until he landed on the floor. Now then, where was the elevator?

"Freeze!" someone shouted at him, causing the actor to turn around and stop in his tracks. A small group of men in black uniforms were facing him, two kneeling down as three stood behind them. Each man held a handgun and were aiming right at him.

_Oh god!_ Matt gasped as he took a step back. He had forgotten about security and Wayne's people clearly meant business if they had guns. Even in his current state, he did not want to get shot. He could die!

"I said hold still, monster!" the same man ordered at Matt's movement.

"Hey, hold on now," he tried to reason with them. "There's no need to—"

"Shut up and get on your knees! Hands above your head, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya." Matt began raising his hands up in the air, again taking another step back, and then another.

That was clearly not what the security detail wanted. "Take him down!"

Matt screamed as he shielded his face with his arms, the roar of gunfire echoing throughout the room. Immediately, he felt the bullets tear into his flesh of his arms, stomach, and legs, just like he always image they would—and then they stopped. Surprisingly, he didn't feel any pain. Yeah, no pain at all!

Slowly, he lowered his arms and looked at himself. There were small holes dotting his body, yet all he felt was the presence of bullets in them. That was it. He...he was alive!

And then a new revelation hit him. He couldn't feel pain. A sickening smile crept onto his face. Oh, now that was useful. Turning his twisted face to the guards, he began a slow march to them, which resulted in the men firing more rounds at him. And all he felt was the bullets sinking into his soft body and stopping soon after. That caused his grin to grow even wider as the security detail began to look at him in horror.

Coming to a stop in front of them, Matt raised an arm up and crossing it in front of his body before swinging it out. His hand slammed into the side of one of the standing men, knocking him into the man next to him, and the one after that. The three of them fell to the floor in a heap to his right.

The two kneeling men scrambled on hands and knees to get away from him, to which Hagan lifted up a leg and slammed it down on one of the men's foot. A cry left the man's lips as he dropped his torso to the floor, one arm stretched out, reaching for something that could possibly help him.

Oh, Matt was enjoying this. This sense of power, this fear directed at him. This...this was fantastic! No wonder all of those thugs liked terrorizing people! The rush he was feeling—

Came to an abrupt end as something rammed into his back, knocking him off his balance as he stumbled forward. "Whooooaaaa!" he cried out before he fell to the floor, landing on his face. He laid there for a moment before he growled in anger. Who the hell had the balls to hit him? Huh?! Pushing off the ground with his hands, he bent his knees so he could rest on them and turned his head to look behind him.

And standing by the fallen guards was the Batman, glaring at him with quiet rage.

For once, Matt didn't feel so confident anymore.

"Give yourself up, now," the Batman commanded as his blank white eyes bored into him.

"No way!" Matt shot back before getting back onto his feet and taking off, running towards a nearby hallway. To his dismay, he heard footsteps following him, meaning the Bat was giving chase.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

* * *

It was both fortunate and unfortunate that Elliot had noticed one of his cars was missing. He wasn't going to miss Hagan's attack on Wayne Enterprises for the world, but he now had added incentive to haul ass after that brownish blob.

If anyone got a good look at that car or got any identification from it that could lead back to him, it would not be good for his present situation.

He needed to clean up this mess before it got messier. For himself at least.

The redhead had only removed his suit jacket and tie and donned on a tan-colored trench coat with the collar raised up. Any further changing in wardrobe was put on hold as he had checked out his garage, looking for the most inconspicuous model he had on hand when he made his horrifying discovery. He only stalled long enough to select his vehicle of choice so that he could snag the key to it and chase after Hagan.

He had arrived at Wayne Tower shortly after Hagan had made his dramatic entrance.

To be more precise, he had arrived at the moment when Wayne's security had opened fire on Hagan. For a second, he had felt a sinking feeling in his body. Hagan was done for, he could see his car right where the front desk used to be, and there was no way this was going to end well for him.

He was probably just as surprised as Hagan to discover that the actor's mutated form was impervious to bullets. A sense of astonishment cover came the man as he watched Hagan lumber towards the security guards, those brave souls firing more rounds at him. As the actor decimated the guards, Elliot thought for a moment that this situation could be salvaged. Now he just needed to get to his car...wait, those were security cameras up there, weren't they? He was going to be captured on tape doing his clean up. Not good, not good at all.

Okay, change in plan. He was still going to wipe down the car, remove any identification that could be followed back to him, and make a detour to the security room, and appropriate some incriminating footage. Nothing too complicated about that.

"Whooooaaaa!"

And then there was another complication.

He had seen the news stories. He had read all the articles. He knew about who it was that had just laid Hagan down on his face; there was no question who it was. Just...it was the last person Elliot expected to show up, especially in at this time of day.

Didn't the Batman only show up at night? The sun was just beginning to set, so why was he here at Wayne Enterprises? Why was he defending it from Hagan and his self-righteous rage?

"Give yourself up, now," the vigilante demanded, his voice booming throughout the lobby.

Hagan, though, was more inclined to disobey and was taking off to the closest hallway. Elliot was predicting that the Batman would give chase and was soon proven right. As a result, the lobby was now deserted and Elliot recognized it for the opportunity it was.

With his mind racing, he hurried over to his car, grabbing the end of his trenchcoat and wiping down the car as best as he could. Reaching the driver's side, Elliot paid close attention to the steering wheel, the radio, the seat belt bucket, and pretty much anything he may or may not have touched in the car. Okay, okay, that was done, and that, and that. Looked like he had gotten everything—oh wait, couldn't forget the turn signal. Can't forget about that.

Precious moments passed as he continued his clean up of the car, pulling the insurance cards out of the glove compartment, peeling off the inspection and licence plate stickers on the windshield as well as the one that informed him of his next oil change. He stuffed them all into his pockets before pulling back out of the car.

He made another sweep of the car, getting the outside now. He picked up the licence plate that had once called the front of the vehicle its home and held onto it as a reminder to get the one of the back. Periodically he checked for anyone who might spot him out, but outside of the noises that came in the general direction of where Hagan and the Batman last went, nothing so far indicated that he was at risk.

Finally reaching the back bumper, he pried the plate off as best as he could and once accomplished, stuffed both plates into his jacket. It was a little uncomfortable, but he would have to bear with it until he left.

Now...where were those security tapes kept?

* * *

Batman raced down the hallway, following the large brown monster as it fled from him. It was clearly sentient from its use of language and recognition of...well, him. He couldn't place the voice though, but he'd figure out who and what this creature was when he caught up to it.

Rounding a corner, the vigilante noticed several walkways high above. The first and second floors were unseparated by a ceiling, so one could look all the way up to the ceiling between the second and third floors. Bridges formed the walkways from one part of the second floor to the other. Seeing as he wasn't making any ground on the monster, Batman pulled out his grapple and fired it between two of the bridges, hearing it make contact with the ceiling above and catching hold.

Hitting the retraction button, he was pulled off the floor, racing through the air and launched over one of the walkways. Releasing his grip on the grapple gun, his momentum kept him flying until he began to arc downwards, gravity finally pulling him down to the ground. Leaning backwards, he extended a leg out, the other raised and bent at the knee. His timing couldn't have been better as his falling kick collided with the back of the monster, causing it to cry out and stumble into a nearby wall.

However, the Batman was surprised to find that instead of bouncing off his opponent, he sank right into it. The entirety of his legs disappeared into whatever this monster was made of, coming to a stop just below his belt. Placing his hands on it, the vigilante tried to push himself out of it, only to find his hands sinking into its flesh.

That's when one of the creature's hands raised up and wrapped its fingers around the entirety of his shoulders, pressing his arms into his sides. "Get out!" it roared before it yanked him out of the brownish sludge, and tossed him away like a ragged doll.

Getting control of his flight, the Batman twisted and turned his body until he managed to land on his feet, crouching down with his weight being held by his toes, his back to the monster as his cape fell all over him, concealing his body from sight. Reaching to his belt, he picked out a shuriken and spun around, the fronts of his feet pivoting as his cape was tossed aside by his throwing arm. Releasing the shuriken, he sent it flying towards the monster, who raised its arm up instinctively to protect himself.

The projectile embedded itself into the monster's arm, but came to a sudden stop. It held its stance for a moment before lowering its arm down, a twisted grin appearing on its face. "What do ya know, that didn't hurt either," it proclaimed before it reached up with its other arm and pulled out the shuriken.

Batman narrowed his eyes. What the hell was this thing? From what he could tell, its skin was extremely malleable. It also seemed to not feel pain either, at least from sharp weapons. How was he suppose to fight this?

Still smiling, the creature threw the shuriken back at him, but it careened sloppily, never coming anywhere near the dark-clad man. That didn't stop the monster from running again though, this time heading up a flight of stairs. Once more, the Batman gave chase, heading to the second floor. By the time he reached the top, he caught sight of the monster down a hallway, turning a corner. It was getting faster.

Dashing down the hall, he reached the corner and turned it, continuing to run down the corridor until he reached the end. Another hallway appeared, but this time the vigilante came to a stop. There wasn't any sign of the monster down the hall, something that made him frown. Turning his head to look down the one he had just exited, something caught his eye. One of the door handles, there was something on it. Creeping towards it, he kneeled down to examine it, noticing it looked similar to the sludge that the creature was composed of. Standing up, he opened the door and found it led into a stairwell.

Just then, the sound of a door closing reached his ear. Somewhere above. The Batman shot up the stairs, climbing them two at a time until he reached a landing with a door. No sludge. Another set of stairs and a landing proved more fruitful when he found the push handle on the door covered in sludge. Shoving the door open, he launched himself into a large corridor, one that was spacious enough to have several sets of couches, chairs, and tables placed in line until they reached the opposite side of the room. One of the walls was a line of window glass, giving a view of the city beyond it.

That was when something slammed into the side of the Batman's head, knocking him off his feet and to the floor. Snapping his head back, he saw the monster lunging at him, one of its fists drawn back and ready to be swung. Pushing off the floor, the dark-clad man rolled to a side just in time to dodge the creature's fist as it slammed into the floor where he previously had been.

The vigilante had just gotten to his feet when he saw the monster leap towards him again, this time with throwing its other fist. Diving, he went into a roll and bounced back onto his feet over by one of the chairs as the fist impacted the floor once more.

"Stay still!" it roared as it turned towards him. Facing him, the Batman charged at it, dodging its next blow and throwing a couple punches of his own into its abdomen. Though the monster grunted from the body blows, all that was accomplished were two fist-sized holes in its skin. To Batman's surprise, the holes began to expand out until there was no evidence that his punches had actually landed.

Sensing movement, he ducked down, just as the monster swung both of its arms inward in an attempt to grab him. Dashing away, the vigilante found himself over by the furniture again and eyed one of the chairs. So if his fists weren't making a dent…

Seeing the creature roaring as it charged him again, the Batman grabbed the chair by its arms and hefted it up, holding it in front of his chest. It was a heavy chair unfortunately, but he held it up with only a grunt in protestation. Running forward, he rammed the bottom of the chair into the monster and pushed it backwards, much to its surprise. It felt backwards and landed on its back, the chair and Batman landing on top of it. The creature laid still for a moment before it began to struggle, shaking the chair beneath the vigilante. Crouching on the furniture, the Batman used it to spring up into the air and away, landing on the floor a moment later as the monster grabbed the chair and threw it away. A loud crash was heard as it hit the floor and shattered into pieces, not that the vigilante cared as he began circling his foe, soon coming near the wall opposite the windows.

He was fascinated as he watch the monster get back to its feet. Its body was misshaped right where the chair had impacted it, but as it moved the deformed body changed and shifted until it was if nothing has happened.

"Damn it, I'm too soft," it grumbled loudly before focusing right on the vigilante. "I need to be harder."

As it raised its fist again, the monster seemed oblivious as its hand began to change. What was once a brown, clay color morphed into a polished grey. It looked as if it were metal. With a roar, it charged at Batman and swung its alter fist. Dodging to the right, he was astonished to watch as the fist burst through the wall, creating a hole in it.

The monster seemed shocked by this development too as it gasped, "Wha?" Slowly, it pulled its fist out and only saw its clay-colored hand, the metallic grey nowhere to be found. "How did I...?"

Seeing it was distracted, the Batman tried to think of how he could take the monster down. Hitting it obviously wasn't working; the body was way too soft to take lasting damage. Hell, it had done something to itself to make it strong enough to break through a wall. Perhaps if he could find a way to harden its flesh, he could find a way to take it down. Looking about the room, he couldn't find anything until he noticed a small red tank hanging on the wall nearby.

A fire extinguisher.

Well, if it worked for Lois Lane…

Grabbing it, he ripped it from the wall and pulled out the pin in its head. Pulling up the hose, he aimed it right at the monster and squeezed the handle, a wintery blast of foam shooting all over it.

A surprised cry tore out of the monster's mouth as it jerked away from the vigilante. "What's...happening…" it got out before it noticed something was off about itself. Batman couldn't see due to the cloud of exhaust between him and the creature, but it clearly didn't like what it was. Stumbling, it tried to get away from the vigilante, moving towards the window, but the Batman wasn't going to let him get away. Walking forward, he kept firing burst after burst of fire-retardant chemicals at it, despite its cry. "No! Stop! Stop it!"

And then, it reached the window. The creature rammed its entire body against the glass, causing it to crack, but no more. Due to the continued retardant blasts, it had no choice by to lean its hulking frame against the window for support. However, the glass proved it couldn't hold the weight forever as the cracks began to grow and splinter out until it shattered, the monster falling through the window.

Gasping, the Batman rushed to the window and looked out of it, watching in horror as the monster fell towards the street below. When it hit the asphalt, it splattered, a large blob the only thing left of it.

"Dear God," the vigilante spoke as dread began to fill his gut. Had...had he actually...killed it? What had he done? He hadn't meant to do that. Immobilize it sure, but not...Jesus Christ.

He had to steady himself against one of the crossbeams that separate each window glass pane. He was going to be sick. Oh God. A hand shot up to his mouth as he felt the urge to vomit. All the while, he kept his eyes on the spatter down below. He just couldn't tear his sight from the mess, even if he wanted to; yet, he felt he at least owed the creature his full attention.

And it was because of that that he saw the splatter move. It seemed to wiggle at first, as if it were shuddering. Then as one it crawled towards the opposite side of the street, much to Batman's astonishment. There was a sewage drain and it forced every last bit of it into it until there was nothing of it that remained.

_What the hell is that?_

* * *

It appeared that fortune was smiling on Tommy Elliot today. He had located the security room, spotting the monitor display that held the incriminating images of the lobby. The place was vacating, which added more to his fortune. All he needed to do was cut the recording here then find out how the footage was being stored. If it was on a disc, that would make things so much easier. If it was digital, then there would be a problem.

It was simple to turn off the cameras. To ensure that he didn't miss any, he turned off all the cameras in the building. Now, where was the footage?

Those looked interesting. Ooh, looked like a CD-ROM there. Several in fact. It seemed like he was in luck once more. It didn't appear that Wayne Tower recorded their security feeds digitally. At least not yet.

He ejected each and every disc, snatching up each and every one. No sense leaving any behind and risking his hide any further than it already was. He stuffed them all into a pocket, buttoning it closed to ensure nothing would jostle them out.

A thought occurring to him, he searched around for any blank discs. It would add some subterfuge, certainly, but it was easier to pin the blame on a security guard forgetting to hit a record button than it was to have no discs in place to record. He located the blanks disks in short order and placed them into the emptied CD-ROMs.

There. Now he would leave without leaving a visual record of anything. He was almost out of the woods here. Just as long as Hagan kept the Batman occupied…

There was a boom, followed by _something_ bursting through the wall. Elliot made the mistake of turning towards it and watching as plaster blasted its way towards him. He attempted to raise his arms up to protect his head, but was unable to block some of it as he felt jagged pieces of sheetrock dig into his flesh. With a cry, he fell onto his back, blood oozing out of his wounds. Lying on the floor, he clutched at his scarred face, his body writhing in pain.

Adrenaline began pumping through his system then, the pain allowing him to focus over the chaos his sympathetic system was unintentionally causing. Elliot forced himself to get his breathing under control, to calm down the neuro-stimulation. Heart rate slowing down, he then removed his hands from his face, observing the blood smeared on them.

This wasn't good.

He pressed his hands against his face, doing his best not to obstruct his eyes. He pulled himself off the floor and cursed when he heard the licence plates he had been holding onto clattering on the floor. This wasn't going to be easy, was it?

The next few minutes were almost a blur. How the redhead managed to pick up those plates and get out of the small room, he did not know. The sound of shattering glass was certainly alarming and he took that as his cue to get as far away as he could.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he searched for a way out, not going into the lobby as now emergency responders were arriving. That further complicated matters.

There had to be other ways out of this place, right? Yes, of course. He needed to be quick about it because time was short and the police would surely have this place surrounded and cordoned off.

Despite all the adversity against him, he found an exit, an emergency exit, but an exit nonetheless. He was taken out into a side street that had yet to have any law enforcement in it so that was yet another stroke of luck.

With long strides, Elliot hurried to the end of the street and peeked out of it. He could see the cop cars increasing in number, the police blocking off the entrance to Wayne Tower. How could he get around them and get to his car without attracting attention?

From the corner of his eye, he spotted an entrance to the subway. With another look at the police, Elliot made the rash decision to head into it.

Down the steps he went, hands still pressed to his face. Luck was again on his side; no one was using the stairs. This station did not have a lot of human traffic in it, which was another boon for him. It was almost as if he was about to use up the rest of his luck on this one ill-fated venture.

Wait, over there. By a fire extinguisher, he could see his salvation. Hanging close by to the red tank was a first aid kit, something he was in dire need of at the moment. He hurried over to it and with an elbow broke open the glass casing that shielded the kit. He opened the kit briefly to retrieve some alcohol swabs and bandages then headed for the nearest restroom.

Once inside, he locked the door behind him, taking the risk that he was not alone in here. He went straight to the sinks where he placed the first aid kit and stared at the dirty mirror hanging on the wall to inspect his damaged face. Ehhh, that was a face only a mother could love.

Turning on the faucet, he rubbed his hands under the water, washing the blood off them. He reached out and snagged some paper towels, using them to wipe as much blood as he could off his face. Next came the alcohol swabs. He knew the importance of treating wounds, no matter how trivial they were.

Bearing through the stinging the alcohol caused, he soon took the bandages out of the kit and began to unroll them. Then he began to wrap them around his head. Before long he had his wounds covered, yet he didn't quite stop there. He continued to add more bandages until the only parts of his head that weren't covered was his hair, a large slit over his eyes, most of his nose aside from one strip running over it, and his mouth. He wasn't quite like a mummy, but he did seem to be heading in that direction.

Bah, it would have to do. Now for the next part: getting out of here without anyone spotting him. If anyone asked about the bandages he could always say he had some plastic surgery done recently. Throwing away his trash into the trashcan and sliding the closed first aid kit across the floor and into one of the stalls, Elliot then went to the door and unlocked it, stepping out and disappearing into the subway station.


	9. Oh, Tommy

On the desk sat a small petri dish. In the disk was a sample of the sludge left on the doors by the monster that had attacked Wayne Enterprises. Bruce had collected a sample of it while collecting evidence following the fight. There hadn't been much time to collect much else as the police had arrived soon after and he had to make a quick getaway.

Beside the petri dish was a large microscope, a small slide with a sample of the sludge placed on the stage. Standing in front of the microscope, Bruce looked in the eyepiece and adjusted the lens magnification until he had a good look at the sample. It was unlike anything he had seen before. He could make out cells, but they seemed less formed than usual cells. They seemed to have a pseudociliated appearance, but that was even a stretch.

As he continued to examine the slide, he heard crisp footsteps echoing behind him. Alfred. The butler was heading his way too as his footsteps grew louder. Faintly, there was a clinging sound that rattled with each step. It didn't come to an end until Alfred reached his workbench and placed it on the table.

"I hope that isn't my casserole you're studying."

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched up before he replied, "I recovered this from Wayne Enterprises. Some kind of monster attacked and left it behind."

"Very good, Sir," Alfred responded. "I've brought you your dinner."

Tearing his face from the microscope, the dark-clad man turned his head to his right and found Alfred standing at the end of his workbench, a silver carrying tray resting on it. He could see a plate that had a pile of what looked like the sludge he had collected, though he could pick out pieces of green vegetables in it. That was the only thing to distinguish the two from each other.

For some reason, Bruce wasn't feeling very hungry at the moment.

Ignoring the butler's offering, the dark-haired man said, "I'm not sure what to make of this. From what I can tell, the monster didn't feel any pain. When one of my shuriken pierced its arm, it just pulled it out and threw it back at me."

"Maybe next time you should aim for its eye?"

"Maybe," Bruce replied, occupied. "I ended up using a fire extinguisher to harden its skin. It seemed to work until it jumped out of the window." Stepping away from the workbench, he began walking towards his super computer, taking a seat in the chair, and began typing.

Alfred was soon standing next to him, the tray in his hands. Glancing to the casserole, Bruce then looked up to the butler and said, "You don't seriously expect me to eat that right now?"

"Master Bruce, if you are going to indulge yourself in these nightly activities of yours, you need to keep up your strength, which means proper nutrition," Alfred responded, a hint of steel in his voice.

Bruce glanced down to the casserole, then back to Alfred's expectant face, then back to the food. With great reluctance, he picked up the plate and sat it in his lap. A fork was then held out to him, causing a grimace to appear on his face as he took the utensil. Scooping up a forkful of the casserole, he stuck it into his mouth and began chewing. _Hmm, not bad._

Acting as if the last few seconds hadn't happened, Alfred turned his attention to the computer screen and asked, "Do you have any clue as to what this creature is made of?"

"Nothing I've ever seen before," Bruce answered before munching on another bite of casserole. Swallowing, he continued, "The properties are difficult to pin down." Pressing a few buttons, the image on the microscope appeared on the screen. "As you can see, there doesn't seem to be any stratification of the cells. Further scans show normal ranges of metallic elements in it."

Alfred raised an eyebrow at that. "Metallic elements?"

Nodding his head, he replied, "At one point during the fight, its fist harden into what appeared to be some kind of metal compound. It then crushed a wall with it. However, the monster seemed to be just surprised as I was about it."

"I don't suppose there is any visual evidence of this."

At this, Bruce frowned. "That's something that's been bugging me. When I checked the security room to access the security tapes, they were all gone. It's as if the entire building was blind to the fight." A pause, then, "In fact, the entire day was missing."

"Perhaps a security guard forgot to record?" the butler suggested, though his voice sounded dubious to that possibility.

"Unlikely. Someone stole the tapes, though for whatever reason is a mystery." It went unsaid that he would solve said mystery. Then a grin appeared on his face as he again began pressing keys, "However, there was one recording they didn't get."

The computer screen changed then, showing the back of the monster as it stood over fallen security guards in the Wayne Tower lobby. Those recording lens had paid off already. Hitting play, the back of the monster seemed to grow to fill the entire screen until two legs swung in from the bottom of the screen and struck it. "_Whooooaaaa!" _it cried out as it began to stumble forward. The feed came to a jerky halt before Bruce's voice demanded, "_Give yourself up, now."_

"Give yourself up?" Alfred repeated before looking down on Bruce. "Whatever made you think this creature would surrender itself? Does that even work on those hoodlums you beat up on every night?"

The dark-haired man ignored the remark. Instead, he just continued to watch as the monster fled from him, the young man giving chase as the camera bobbed up and down from his running. This continued up to when he had thrown his shuriken and the creature said, "_What do ya know, that didn't hurt either."_

Alfred's head perked up at that. "I do say, that voice sounds familiar."

That caused Bruce to jerk his head to a side to face his butler. "You've heard this voice before?"

"Indeed I have. I believe it was from a film I saw on the television."

"You watch movies?"

Alfred's eyes slid over to meet his gaze. "Unlike some people in this cave, I like to watch the occasional picture show when able to. I highly recommend that you do so as well. As a playboy billionaire, you do have to keep up with what passes for pop culture these days."

"Duly noted," Bruce deadpanned, his tone indicating he would do no such thing. "So who does this voice belong to?"

At this, Alfred tilted his head up as he placed a hand against his chin. He seemed lost in thought for a moment before saying, "If I'm not mistaken, Sir, I believe that sounded like Matthew Hagan. I could be wrong, though."

Ignoring that last line, Bruce was typing on his keyboard until he brought up a voice recognition program. Entering the monster's voice, he then sought out one of Hagan's movies that had been uploaded to the internet. Entering that in, he then started the program to begin processing. It took a few seconds before a pop-up window appeared with giant green letters that said, "MATCH 97%."

After staring at the window, Bruce turned his head to look towards his workbench, staring at the sample. "Don't tell me this is the effects of Tommy's cream."

And yet, that seemed to be making sense in his head. "Alfred, bring the slide I have in the microscope over here."

"Yes, Sir," the butler said before moving to do as told. Meanwhile, Bruce then said, "Computer: bring up all data on Dr. Thomas Elliot's facial cream, Project #EP3409." Instantly, the screen began to flash with color as it did as ordered. By the time Alfred returned, glass in hand, the dark-clad man pointed towards a slot that was opening up, a drive extending out. The butler placed the slide on the drive and pushed it back into the computer and more activity occurred on the screen.

Eventually, two windows appeared reading off what appeared to be random series of letters and numbers, but Bruce could read them. They were the various compounds of both the cream and the sample. As far as he could tell, they were very similar.

Bruce then lowered his head, his face coming to rest in the palm of his hand as it was held up by his elbow pressing into his leg. "Oh Tommy, what have you done."

* * *

In the safety of his home, Elliot had disposed of the security discs, ensuring that they would not come back to haunt him. He had gone all out, scratching the shiny surfaces of the discs before breaking them into pieces. Overkill some would say, but he would not take any chances. Especially not when he would be considered a prime suspect if Hagan's attack was linked to him.

In fact, if anyone was able to identify Hagan, he was sure that he would be investigated and further disgraced.

That seemed to be one of an innumerable amount of problems that had sprung up for him in the past twenty-four hours. According to the news, Hagan had been driven off, though how the news outlets could not speculate at the moment. He, on the other hand, had a good idea.

It had never entered into his calculations that the Batman would appear as he had. It completely broke the pattern that the vigilante had set up for himself. It didn't make any sense to the doctor and former C.E.O.

As he sat in his living room, the same room where Hagan had ambushed him in fact, Elliot continued to analyze the events of the day, playing them over and over in his head. He still had the bandages around his face, having not bothered to take a better look at the wounds he had suffered. He was too consumed in puzzling out the motives of the Batman and why he would show up at Wayne Tower of all places and in broad daylight.

What did he know of this Batman character? He had shown up several months ago; he did his vigilantic business at night; he was not affiliated with the police, especially since law enforcement was still trying to take him down with no results whatsoever. He had played a part in stopping Victor Fries, or Mr. Freeze as various news outlets had started calling the former Wayne researcher, during the Night of Ice.

Well there was a thought. This was not the first time that the Batman had defended Wayne Enterprises. Could it be coincidence? Maybe, but still.

It did not change the fact that for the second documented time the Batman had defended Wayne Enterprises. Maybe...maybe there was a connection here. Sure, twice was coincidence and thrice was conspiracy, but Elliot was not one to dismiss a coincidence easily.

He would have to keep an eye on the Batman, starting now. No more getting his fill from the easily spooked journalist and the uptight police officers who were not the vigilante's biggest fans. He would have to start his own thorough investigation. But why stop there? Why take the chance of having the Batman defend Wayne Enterprises for a third time? Why not be proactive and take him out now so that he would not be a thorn in his side later?

How would he go about doing that?

Obviously he couldn't have the Batman know it was him. After watching Hagan and keeping up with the Fries coverage, a direct assault might not be the best approach. Fortunately, Elliot was good at the indirect approach. It was his specialty even. During the games they would play as children, he would always beat Bruce—Wayne through indirect means. Thinking like how Wayne thought and anticipating his next move always won out.

So he needed to think like the Batman. That would require some observation, but how much was the question? Of course, before observing the Bat in action he had to find him.

Well, that was simple enough to do. Murder and mayhem ought to do it. A trap. If he played his cards right, the Batman would not know he was there until it was too late. After that, Wayne would not have a defender to protect him from his next attack, whatever it may be.

To pull it off, he needed to remain six steps ahead. Like he always was.

* * *

Gordon wasn't alone. From where the Batman stood, watching through a pair of binoculars, the police commissioner looked occupied with another person in his office. Considering his posture was relaxed, it wasn't anyone to be concerned about.

Shifting his sight to a clock hanging on the wall, the vigilante noted that Gordon would be leaving soon for a cigarette break. That would be the time to intercept him for their upcoming meeting. Returning his sight back to Gordon, he continued to watch until the older man stood up, picking up a small carton with him and began leaving his office. Who ever was with him was keeping out of sight of the window, something that concerned him, but again, if Gordon wasn't alarmed, then there wasn't a potential threat. Still…

Waiting an extra second, it was as the door to the commissioner's office closed that a girl appeared. Young, redhead, vaguely familiar. Okay, so she was definitely not a threat. Good.

Looking up, he scanned the roof of the GCPD, searching for any other officers up there and was satisfied to find it empty. Placing the binoculars back into their pouch on his belt, he then removed his grapple and fired it up to an anchor point higher up the building he sat on. Hearing the grapple claws make contact, he then hit the retraction button and was lifted up into the air. In mere seconds, he was at the top of the building, placing the grapple back into his belt before staring down at the police station.

Time for another test.

Hitting a button on his gauntlet, he then launched himself off the building, his cape billowing behind him as the air began to rush by. Grabbing his cape, it suddenly stiffened into its glider frame, immediately stopping his fall and allowing him to glide forward. If there was one thing to come out of the Fries Incident, it was this handy cape.

Hearing nothing but the slight flutter the ends of the cloth made, he approached the roof of the police station, angling his flight to circle the building as he drew near it. One of the large air conditioning units was rising up to him, to which he leaned back and swung his legs forward, releasing his hold on his cape and feeling it collapse behind him. Less than a second later, he landed on the metal unit, not even a sound being made by his landing. He was getting better at this.

Remaining crouched, he then turned his head towards the roof access door and waited for it to open. It took a bit before the door opened and Gordon stepped out, opening his cigarette carton and shaking it to pull out one of the paper sticks.

The vigilante just sat there and watched him, waiting to see if anyone else would be joining him. Most times that wasn't the case, but there was one lieutenant that would emerge every now and then. He didn't trust her enough to emerge from his perch and usually left without either of them being the wiser.

As a breeze blew by, he allowed his cape to flutter in it, the sound immediately causing Gordon to jerk his head up and then turned towards the air conditioning units. Staying still for a moment, the commissioner then pulled out his lighter and lit his cigarette, taking in a deep whiff before exhaling the smoke. Casually, he strolled over to the units, entering the make-shift maze before he found the dark-clad man.

"I think we need a better way of getting in contact with each other," the older man quipped.

The Batman nodded his head, but gave no other answer until, "You're keeping an eye on the Wayne Enterprises Attack."

It wasn't a question and he never meant it to be. Gordon didn't seem to mind as he replied, "Naturally. The mayor has been on my ass about it, demanding answers that I can't give him. If he wanted answers so badly, he'd do something about Internal Affairs."

"Forbes."

"Right you are. You share a lot of similarities, though I like you better. You at least know who the real bad guys are," Gordon confirmed.

He wanted to grimace, but remained stoic. However, he did offer, "This wasn't suppose to happen."

"I know. Neither of us did, but that doesn't change the fact that it did." The commissioner took in another drag of his cigarette and breathed out the fumes. "But that's not what you're here for, is it? It's the attack on Wayne Enterprises. What do you want to know?"

Good, back to something more comfortable—for the both of them. "Do you have any leads on who took the security footage for the entire building?"

"Not a one other than the theory that someone forgot to press the record button that day," he snorted. "Which is complete bullshit, if you ask me. The guys Wayne hires for his security are not stupid or forgetful. I'd say that someone else was involved, but I have no evidence for it right now."

"How about the owner of the car?"

"Nothing so far. The plates were missing. Any identification was removed—insurance, inspection stickers and the like. Fortunately the car has a serial number and we're looking into that."

The Batman kept silent as he factored in the information. It was likely the car was a dead end, though if it belonged to Matt Hagan, it could be used as evidence against him. However, if it turned out to be stolen, then there wasn't much they could do other than charging the actor with grand theft auto, at least when matters concerned the car. Perhaps it was time he helped _direct_ the investigation.

"You obtained samples of that sludge on the doors, correct?" Upon seeing the older man nod his head in confirmation, the vigilante continued, "Cross examine it with a pharmaceutical compound that was formerly being produced at Elliot Pharmaceuticals."

"Pharmaceutical compound? Elliot Pharmaceuticals? Why would they be involved with that thing? Would be the oddest form of corporate sabotage I've ever heard of." With a shrug, the commissioner added, "I'll have someone check into it, probably Essen. With folks who have such high standings, they are offly sensitive when having to explain themselves."

Ignoring the last part of Gordon's response, the Batman said, "Call it a second opinion. I've already ran some tests and it points to them. And if you receive the same results as I did, we'll have the identity of the assailant."

"How'd I know you'd be interested in this?" The man shook his head. "Anything else you can add about that sludge? The lab boys are scratching their heads, almost pulling out their hair. Never seen anything like it before, I've heard."

"Nothing definitive. I'll keep you posted on anything else I'll find."

"Well, so long as I have you here, do you know why that thing was looking for Wayne?"

"It...wasn't very forthcoming about that."

"Figures it couldn't be that easy. I was thinking about looking into Wayne Enterprises, just in case."

Batman nodded his head in response. "There's more, though not concerning Wayne. Maroni's coming back."

There was a pregnant pause between them before Gordon swore. "As if there wasn't enough happening already. Still, now that Cobblepot's out of the way, it's clear for that son of a bitch to march right back in. Both you and I know we can't do anything about him. It's not illegal for someone to walk into a city."

"Sooner or later, he will slip," the vigilante countered. "And when he does, he'll go down."

"I wish I could have your confidence. Unfortunately, not all the men under my command are as...untouchable as you are. Some will revert back to old habits. Others will be drooling to have someone give them another source of income. That's not to say things are significantly better than they used to be, but we both know that the second thing Maroni will be doing other than getting his family back into shape is getting the cops back into his pockets." The commissioner took another drag on his cigarette.

Unfortunately, Gordon was right about that. Still, the Batman wasn't going to let Maroni return to suck Gotham dry again. This time, the Italian was going to find it a lot harder to conduct business, especially when every one of his thugs was visiting the emergency room.

However, before he could reply, a slight whining sound of old hinges squealing caught his ear. The slight tilt of his head was the only sign he gave that he heard it, his eyes focusing on the roof access door. Someone was trying to slowly, carefully open the door without being discovered, something that immediately lit up red flags. "Someone's coming," he spoke softly.

"I'll take care of it," the other man whispered back, heading over towards the roof entrance. As Gordon left, the vigilante once again activated the electric current in his gauntlet and leapt off the police station, grabbing hold of his cape and gliding away to a nearby building. Landing on it, he turned his head to look at the giant air conditioning units blocking the rest of the GCPD roof from sight. Good, if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him.

That didn't mean he stayed on this new perch. Quickly, he made his way up the building side, until he was once more above the police station, looking down on its roof and seeing Gordon standing in front of...a redhead. Keeping still, he watched the two of them interact, the commissioner hiding his cigarette behind his back. Seeing that there wasn't any imminent danger, he made to leave.

However, before he could go, he stopped as he noticed the girl staring towards him. It was as if that moment froze, stretching uncomfortably long. Had she seen him? Scowling slightly, he moved out of sight, heading towards the other side of the building. He had spent long enough here and crime didn't sleep in this town.

* * *

Barbara winced as she opened the roof access door. Someone seriously needed to oil these hinges; it made sneaking around harder than it had to be.

Her dad had come up here not too long ago for a "cigarette break." Yeah, sure, that's what you call meeting illegal vigilantes nowadays, especially for a guy who quit smoking months ago. At least that's what she believed was their cover. The last couple of weeks had gone to show that yeah, her dad really did come up here to smoke and he did it quite a bit.

Perhaps it had to do with that IA guy that kept showing up. That guy was just annoying and she could see why her father made frequent trips up here. Still, that couldn't have just been it.

Pushing the door, the redhead peaked through the small gap between the frame and the metal door. All she could see was empty roof and a few lit windows from the building across the street. In other words, not much. Pushing more, she made enough room for her head to fit through and she did so, getting a better look at—

Well damn, there wasn't anyone up here.

Frowning, she gave up all pretense at being stealthy and pushed open the door, stepping out onto the roof. Turning this way and that, there was no sign of her father anywhere and that was really annoying. Had she come up here for nothing? Again?

"What are you doing up here, Barbara?"

Barbara squeaked as she spun around, seeing her dad standing there curiously. Where the heck had he been hiding? "Uh, hey Daddy," she greeted him tensely.

"Hi," he returned the greeting. "Are you up here for something?"

"Umm, yeah," she replied, glancing around, hopefully for a rather tall, dark, and mysterious vig...guy. "I thought I would join you up here and…"

That's when she saw it. In Daddy's hand was a burning tobacco stick. Hadn't he said he was going to quit? "Are you smoking?" she asked accusingly.

Her father glanced down to the cigarette in hand, a spooked look appearing on his face before he placed his hand behind his back. "No."

Barbara crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a stern look. "I thought you said you quit."

"Did I?" he asked, looking confused.

The redhead rolled her eyes. "Yes, Daddy, you said you quit…"

It was then she saw it. Over her dad's shoulder, on top of the next building, a dark shadow stood, watching over them. She could recognize those horns on its head from anywhere. So absorbed by the sight of..._him_...that she didn't see her dad turn to follow her gaze and question, "What are you looking at?"

Snapping back to reality, Barbara immediately said, "Nothing, I…" Oh great, what could she say now? _Think, Barb, think_. "I thought I saw...something." _Ugh, is that the best you've got?_

Her dad raised an eyebrow at that. "Something?"

"Yeah, something. Probably was nothing. Yep, just my bad eyesight playing games with me."

"I thought the opthamologist said you were 20/20."

She shrugged her shoulders at that. "Maybe he was mistaken."

Her dad just stared at here for a moment before shaking his head. Flicking his cigarette away, he then wrapped an arm around her shoulders and began leading her back to the roof access. "It's about time we went back inside."

"Okay," she agreed eagerly. As they moved towards the door though, Barbara couldn't help taking one last look to where she saw the shadow, not too surprised to see no one there. That still didn't wipe away the large smile that grew on her face.


	10. Riot

This was not a place Essen expected she would be entering, at least without an arrest warrent. In fact, she had little clue as to why she was entering Elliot Pharmaceuticals based only on an "anonymous tip" that the commissioner had received. The only instructions she had were to question EP's representative about any experimental products it had and how they could be involved with the creature that had attacked Wayne Enterprises the day before.

That made it sound like a case of corporate sabotage, though this was certainly the strangest way to do it. She was having a little trouble wrapping her mind around it, but nevertheless she was going to stick to the talking points as given to her by Jim—the commissioner.

She needed to remember to call him that instead of by his name. She didn't want to give anyone any ideas—others or herself, she did not know at the moment. She was definitely sure about Bullock though. His teasing alone was enough to keep him out of the loop.

The front desk was her destination in the headquarters of Elliot Pharmaceuticals. The lobby itself was massive, like Wayne Enterprises, and had all the trimmings to boot. Naturally there was a different color scheme, architecture, and...and a fountain it seemed, but other than that, once you've been in a place like this you've been in them all. She could hear the sound of her footsteps echoing throughout the lobby as she approached the front desk, the receptionist busying herself with a phone call.

"Excuse me, I'm Lieutenant Susan Essen from the Gotham City Police Department. I'm here for an appointment with a Phillip Freeman," she spoke to the young woman when it appeared that she was not busy on the phone. To make sure there was no mistake in her identity, she flashed her badge long enough for the receptionist to get a look at it.

"Oh, let me see if he's in," the young woman told her, picking up the phone receiver and punching in the extension number.

In her mind, Essen thought that the man should be here. It wasn't often that the police decide to pay a person a visit, especially if they needed to ask that person some questions. The lieutenant glanced around the lobby, waiting to get a reply back from the receptionist.

"He'll be right down, if you'll wait over there," the secretary spoke up, pointing a long, manicured nail to a row of couches.

"Thanks," the female detective said. While she stepped away from the front desk, she did not take a seat. That wasn't to say that the furniture didn't look comfortable, but she was not really in the mood for leather. Never really liked the material.

Thus she waited several minutes until she was approached by a middle-aged, balding man who was dressed smartly in a business suit. "Are you Lieutenant Essen?" the man asked.

"Depends. Are you Phillip Freeman?" she asked back, pulling her badge out once more.

"Huh. Thought you were a man." That comment struck a nerve in the lieutenant. "Susan should have given have given me your first name."

Susan? Common enough name, she supposed. "Let me guess, your secretary? And she only informed you that you have a meeting with me."

"A practice that will be corrected in the future," Mr. Freeman assured her. "That will go for Jennifer over there as well. Now if you'll follow me, we'll go someplace more private so we can get this all out of the way."

Essen nodded, but said nothing else as she followed the executive. So far he seemed chauvinistic, but it was not her place to say what this man was without further evidence. Didn't mean she had to like what he said, though.

The journey from the front desk led her to the elevators and a ride later she was entering a conference room on one of the upper floors. Unlike the tilted floor in the lobby, she was met with carpeting here along with some spacious hallways and decorations that reminded her of a doctor's office.

If she recalled correctly, their C.E.O. was a doctor...or maybe that was former C.E.O. She may have read something about a recent firing here in the paper recently, but it was not often she paid close attention to the business section.

Once the door to the conference closed, Freeman directed her towards a chair, which she accepted despite the leather upholstery.

"So what can I do for you, Lieutenant Essen?" Freeman asked after he had taken his own seat. "It's not often we here at Elliot Pharmaceuticals have a visit from you."

"It involves the recent attack on Wayne Enterprises." She was straight to the point here, not wanting to get involved in any small talk.

"An event that caught us all off guard, I'm sure," Freeman said. "If you don't mind me asking, why would you be asking questions about it here? We have always had good relations with Wayne Enterprises."

"We'll get to that," she told him. "We are following up various leads and tips. One of those tips mentioned an experimental substance that your company was working on. Would you mind telling me about it?"

"It's a project that was terminated," Freeman answered dismissively. "I don't see what it has to do with what happened at Wayne Enterprises."

"Tell me more about it. What was it supposed to do?" the lieutenant pressed.

"Nothing that involves monsters if that is what you're trying to get at," the businessman replied. "Really, it was something that held promise, but went absolutely nowhere."

"Would it have something to do with the recent firing of your former C.E.O.?"

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I fear you may be grasping at straws. I highly doubt that Dr. Elliot has anything to do with this and for the record, he left voluntarily. It was a mutual agreement. For the time being, we're in the middle of restructuring management. We are far too busy with our internal affairs that we can concern ourselves with external ones. I'm afraid that whatever tip you received was a dead end."

Despite all the talk, Essen knew that she was being stonewalled. Freeman may be saying a lot, but he wasn't answering her questions. Now why would that be?

"In a case such as this, we need to follow every lead if only to make sure that it is a dead end. I'm sure you can understand that," she said. "So, do you have anything else that may have adverse effects? Something that might explain the presence of that creature?"

"Are you accusing us of something?" Freeman was no longer being affable. Before, he was very pleasant, but right now none of it was being directed her way.

"Not at all, Mr. Freeman." She hoped she was being reassuring, but like with Freeman and his pleasantness, she was not in the mood to direct any his way either. "I am hoping for some cooperation so that I can get back the station and follow up more credible leads. However, to do that, I have to follow this lead as far as I can, even if it does lead to nowhere. So, my previous question, Mr. Freeman: do you have any substances here that could have any effects that might create anything like that creature that attacked Wayne Enterprises?"

"None whatsoever Lieutenant. We here at Elliot Pharmaceuticals are in the business of providing the public with the means of maintaining and/or improving their physical and psychological health. We do not create some experimental compounds that could make anything like that creature. We wouldn't be in business if we did."

"I believe you, Mr. Freeman, but to make sure we can rule this lead out, would you mind if I take a look into this experimental compound of yours?"

"I will have to get back to you on that…" Freeman began, but Essen chose to interrupt him this time.

"I am aware that Wayne Enterprises was working in conjunction with the project." She paused to let those words sink in. "I can go to them right now and leave in five minutes with all the details of it." When Freeman didn't say anything, she continued, "Let's work together on this, Mr. Freeman, so that we can get this over and done with as soon as possible."

"I'm going to have to end this right here, Lieutenant. I do not have the time for any witch hunt that you may be trying to lead, but know that any future contact with this company over this matter will be through our attorneys. Good day, Lieutenant."

Pretty much what she expected. "I can show myself out, Mr. Freeman. Let me assure you that we will be in touch."

* * *

Freeman watched as the detective left the room. He was the picture of stoicism right up until the door clicked closed. Once he heard it, he dropped his head and covered his face with his hands.

Would Elliot's nightmare drug ever end? The repercussions of it were beating him silly. Why had they gone on that wild goose chase in the first place? He had felt it in his gut that this was fool's gold, but no, no one listened to him.

Calming down, Freeman reached out to his phone and picked it up, dialing a number. He hardly waited for the other end to pick up before stating, "We have a leak. The police know about EP3409." A pause. "What makes you think I know? Right now, we need to get this contained and secured before we find ourselves in a bigger shitstorm than we're already in." He waited as he listened to the other person on the phone. "Please," he scoffed, "like Elliot would be involved. He's practically a pariah right now. What's the worst he could do?"

* * *

Essen was barely in her car when she was unknowingly mimicking Phillip Freeman by taking out her phone. Her call, however, was to the commissioner.

"Gordon, I think you might be onto something," she said as soon the commissioner picked up.

"_The Elliot Pharmaceuticals tip?"_

Essen nodded her head in affirmation before realizing that Jim couldn't see her. "Yes. They tried to give me the runaround, but when I cut through their BS, they clamped up shut and refused to talk anymore. They are definitely hiding something."

There was a five second pause on the other end before the commissioner spoke again. "_So how do you want to approach this, Lieutenant?"_

"I was thinking of hitting up Wayne Enterprises. Maybe they have something on this compound that Elliot Pharmaceuticals does not want us to know. Also thought of smoking out Dr. Elliot. He might be more open to filling us in on what his company doesn't want us to know."

"_And how do you know that Dr. Elliot would be willing to help in our investigation?"_

"Because he lost his job recently. Typically when a person like a C.E.O. loses his job, it's not because they want too. He's too young to go into retirement despite the fact he's a billionaire."

"_It sounds like you have everything under control on your end."_ Was that a chuckle? "_Be careful, Lieutenant, and inform me of what Wayne Enterprises says when you get back."_

"Of course, Ji—Commissioner." She hung up the phone and sighed. Today was going to be a long day if she was going to be driving all over Gotham on this case. Hopefully this next stop would be more fruitful and not just another waste of her time.

* * *

Nightfall on Gotham, one of the least liked parts of the day.

It was during the night that the creeps and freaks of this city came out of the woodwork to ply their trades and do what they did best. Naturally, the "honest folk" of Gotham would have to suffer whatever mischief these miscreants got into, even if it resulted in the tarnishment of property, the assault and battery on the person, or the ending of a life. Some times it was random and disorganized. Other times it was the opposite, planned to a T, and highly profitable.

In recent months, there had been a bit of a change as the predators who used to stalk the night were now the prey who were stalked. Those who inspired terror were now the terrorized. The strong were torn from their pillars and broken to show what they truly were made of.

On this night, there would be a new face. A hidden one to be sure, but still it would stand out even in a place like Gotham City.

He lived on the outskirts of the city, pretty much like all the wealthy and affluent did. He had had no need to enter the city at night unless he was pulling an all-nighter at his former place of employment. He especially had no need to be walking the streets either where just anyone could mug you without a second's warning.

Yet, that was where Elliot was. Like mentioned before, his face was hidden to a degree. Freshly changed bandages wrapped around his head, obscuring his face and leaving large gaps where his eyes and mouth were. His hair was covered with bandages to hide its distinctive color. No sense tipping anyone off.

He continued to wear the same trench coat that he had put on to follow Hagan the previous day. His footwear on the other hand was changed into something that was more appropriate for running. As for an accessory, he carried a M1911 .45 caliber pistol which would be his personal means of defense—and offense.

It had taken some effort, but he had managed to get into contact with a local gang, one that had been quite interested in what he had to say. Taking out the Batman was a phrase that could get anyone's attention, but only the most ambitious would accept the challenge. Lucky for him he had found a group more than willing to act with the ambition, the numbers, and the drive to do so.

With the name that the Batman had been making for himself, the person or group that could take him out would find themselves comfortably at the top of the food chain. Naturally they were so full of themselves that they were easily manipulable and more than willing to listen to what he said, especially when it came to taking down the Bat.

The plan was brilliant in its simplicity: murder and mayhem. To ensure that the police would not get involved, obstacles would be placed to cordon off the gang and any law enforcement. That meant road blockades of a fiery nature. Hailstorms of bullets. A full out riot where the rioters were criminals. Hidden in the midst of it would be him, bandage-faced and all, to observe and wait for his opportunity to strike.

With odds like these, he doubted he would need to act. How could one man stand up to a militia? Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a contingency and that is where his M1911 came in. If those thugs couldn't do the job, Elliot had the insurance that would do it.

And it all would begin in 3...2...1…

A thunderous boom sounded off in the night as bombs engulfed car in flames, lighting up the dank darkness of the city. Charging out onto the streets, the gang wielded their weapons of choice, cackling like hyenas, and going after any unlucky pedestrian that thought that tonight would be a good night to take a walk. A baseball bat to the back of the head would show how wrong an assumption like that was.

A woman shrieked as she was dragged out of sight by several thugs, her fate obvious to the disgraced doctor. Looks like there was going to be a side order of rape on the menu tonight. It did not concern him though. What did was exposing himself so he kept to the shadows and out of sight of everyone.

In the distance he could hear the sounds of sirens. The law was on its way, but not for long. A select few had been given instructions to be ready for this as well as soon...tools, shall we say, would be used to stall for more time.

The sounds of sirens quieted as more explosions erupted in the distance. That was one road block that was in effect.

Elliot scanned the chaotic setting, searching for any sign of the Bat. He wasn't here yet, despite the amount of larceny occurring. To his left he could see a gang member with a sledgehammer taking his frustrations out on a poor Honda Civic while his friends were cheering him on. To his right, someone was breaking out the molotov cocktails early, throwing them at the front of residences. Flames burst upon the building fronts, beginning that slowly, deadly burn of arson.

He rolled his eyes at that. If they wanted to go for the maximum effect, they should have gone for the roof or through a window. Poor aim and insight there. Nonetheless, it wasn't his problem.

Gun shots were fired and Elliot searched for the source. He better not be in the line of sight, or anywhere near it. If he had learned anything from the previous day, an injury could fuck up your plans like nothing else.

So far, things were looking toasty, but no Bat so far. Where _was_ he? At this rate, this riot was going to start feeding on itself and lose focus. By that, he meant that these young, dumb, and stupid men would forget that this was all suppose to be a trap and not some random act of chaos, no matter how convincing it appeared to be.

Overhead a helicopter appeared, shining a light down on the street, a voice ringing down with the demand to cease and disperse. Gunfire answered that demand, but with as high as it was, the aerial vehicle was not in any imminent danger.

Down the street, he could see a family fleeing its burning home, but ran straight into the welcoming arms of the arsonists who greeted them with bats, brass knuckles, and uncaring fists. Savagely, they were beaten to the ground screaming. Other civilians were trying to escape the nightmarish scene, but also met the fate of the mentioned family. A few individuals were lucky enough to escape, but there were not of his concern.

In the other direction, there was another explosion as a second road block was created with the remains of burning cars and gunfire. The sounds of sirens were muffled by the screams of people, the propellers of the helicopter, and the panicked chaos that was natural to a riot. If you listened closely, you could just make the wailing sirens out.

Okay, how much longer was he going to wait? The Batman was taking his sweet time, not showing up in record time like he did at Wayne Tower—obviously a show of preference there.

From the alley that he had seen several gang members drag that woman from before into, he saw one of the rapists running out. Elliot would have ignored him except for the fact that the thug seemed to find this a good time to lose his balance and fall face first onto the ground. What kept the doctor's attention was the fact that despite laying on the ground, the man was moving back into the alley, trying to grab at the asphalt and screaming his lungs out.

Those screams were masked by the screams of everyone else in the immediate vicinity.

Now that innocuous alley had his full attention. Could this be it? Was the Batman about to make his debut? If so, then it was different from how he had pictured it. Instead of coming in for the head-on approach, the vigilante was being indirect. Very interesting.

Something small was thrown out of the alley and had he not been watching it, the bandage-faced man would have missed it—

A flash blinded along with everyone in close proximity, coupled with a deafening _BANG!_ Elliot grasped at his face with a cry, trying to protect his eyes as he stumbled back further into his little niche, unseen, hopefully, by everyone. It felt like his eyes were on fire and he clenched his eyelids tightly as if that would soothe the ache. He slowly grew aware of the ringing of his ears as—oh shit!

He had lost his balance and tried to catch it against a trashcan that did not hold up his weight. Down he went and disorientation was his friend now. Which way was up? Where was the ground? Where…?

Cautiously, Elliot began blinking his eyes, but ended up shutting them tight due to the agony still shooting through his optic nerves. He groaned as he became more aware of the fact that he was laying on the ground of a dirty alley. The ringing in his ears was becoming more of a dull hum now and he was becoming more and more oriented.

Again, he tried opening his eyes, getting only a blur that was gradually becoming clearer. Okay, it didn't hurt to open them now but it was still an effort. Now he was wondering what could have caused this. Was that a flashbang grenade or something? Damn, he had not been expecting it.

Stretching out an arm, he found a brick wall and began using it to steady himself as he picked himself up and got back onto his feet. His vision was becoming clearer the more he blinked his eyes, his hearing starting to return as well Once he was able to start distinguishing shapes from blurs, he slowly began creeping his way forward. By the time he reached the exit of the alley, his vision was almost back a hundred percent, which allowed him to see what was occurring beyond his small sanctuary.

The street was littered with fallen bodies, or what Elliot assumed were bodies. It could've been pieces of junk for all he knew. Stray rays of light caused him to wince as they pained his retinas. He blinked harder to clear away that pained sensation, a groan escaping his lips. Swinging his head awkwardly from left to right, he tried to find something that made sense to his frazzled mind.

There, movement to his right. Like a thirsty man in a desert he focused on it, squinting his eyes as he did so. There was some form moving amongst dark shapes, causing them to fall in seconds. As his vision continued to clear, he could make out men crashing to the asphalt, the faint cries of fright and pain registering through that incessant ringing.

And then the Batman came more into focus. He had just forcibly pulled a sledgehammer from one of the thugs, spun around in a circle while lowering himself into a crouched position, and slammed the hammer on the side of the thug's knee. The man collapsed to the ground as he grasped at his ruined joint before the head of the sledgehammer was driven into his gut.

A gang member then charged at the Bat, barehanded and what appeared to be screaming. he didn't stand a chance as the vigilante lifted up the hammer and swung it full force into his gut, knocking the man backwards and down to the ground in pain.

Dropping the sledgehammer, the Batman seemed to stroll up to the unarmed thug and casually stomped a booted foot on his head, rendering him unconscious. He then pulled out some sort of device, aimed it an unsuspecting thug and fired it, some sort of cable flying through the air until it made contact. Keeping a firm grip on the device, the dark-clad man grabbed the cable with his other hand and yanked backwards, causing the targeted man to come half-stumbling, half-flying towards him. Elliot winced as the Bat slammed a fist to the man's face, causing him to flip head over feet to the ground behind the vigilante.

Batman then went charging at a nearby group of thugs. What seemed like blinding, blurring movements dropped every single one of those men to the ground in brutal fashion. One, however, managed to back away and picked up a forgotten baseball bat, then tried to strike the vigilante from behind.

Almost as if the Bat had eyes in the back of his head, he nimbly stepped to a side as the bat sailed harmlessly through the air and connected with a crack on the ground. The Batman raised an arm up, bent at the elbow, and slammed it into the attacker's face, knocking him backwards as he released his hold on the wooden weapon to grasp a bleeding, possibly broken nose. However, the bat didn't hit the ground as the vigilante snatched it in mid-air with his other hand, got a firm grip when he grasped it with his second hand, then swung the bat to hit the thug in the face, the bat shattering into wooden splinters upon impact.

And yet, the vigilante wasn't done as he continue to spin in place. Releasing his hold on the bat handle with one hand, he then threw it with the other hand at an unsuspecting thug close by, hitting him on the back of his knee and causing it to buckle as the man let out a surprised cry. So focused on the man was Elliot, he didn't see Batman launch a second projectile, some sort of metal...thing, which collided with the back of the man's skull and knocked him unconscious. The fact that the Batman had hit this man in mid-fall didn't escape the doctor's attention.

A quick look around confirmed what had been a sinking feeling in Elliot's stomach. It wasn't just civilians lying on the ground, but fallen gang members. In fact, a lot more than just the few Batman had engaged in were currently either unconscious or moaning in excruciating pain. That flashbang grenade must have screwed up his sense of time as well as his vision and hearing because there was no way a few minutes could have allowed that...that...incredible man to do as much fighting as he had done.

It was obvious, Elliot had underestimated this man. No wonder he had managed to drive off Hagan. These men who were so eager to make a name for themselves, who had youth and vitality in their favor were falling before the might of this dark Goliath.

No, his underestimation was worse than he thought. The Batman was smarter than he had given him credit for, much smarter. He had thought the vigilante would charge head first into the chaos in a desperate attempt to quell it. When he failed to show up, it hadn't occurred to him that this man would first analyze the scene before forming a plan of action—thus the use of a flashbang grenade and near perfectly-choreographed martial arts moves. Not one movement had been wasted as brutal, devastating blows had efficiently defeated every single thug thus far.

It would have been fatal to carry on with his present course of action.

It was not in Elliot's best interest to reveal himself. From this distance, he was not sure he'd be able to hit the vigilante with his gun. Even now he could see how effective wielding a gun was as the masked man was starting on the armed men.

Turning on his heel, the bandage-faced man made his exit. At the very least he had had the foresight to have an escape plan in case this had turned into a bust.

The Batman was a formidable opponent, no question. Something like brute force would not be enough to take him down. No, it would require some finesse to topple the defender of Wayne Enterprises—no, no that wasn't quite it was it? The defender of Gotham, that was more like it. The Batman had proven that much tonight. It would take strategy and brilliant outmaneuvering to overcome this sort of man. Elliot would need to get into his head and think like him if he was to predict his movements.

Heh, he hadn't had such a challenge like this in a long time.

Wayne could wait for the moment. For the time being, Elliot had a more worthy opponent to deal with. Once the vigilante was dealt with and crushed, then he could return his attention to making Wayne suffer.

Now what would his next move be?


	11. Side Effects

Anger did not do justice to the way he was feeling. Rage didn't either. How could it? When a gang began a riot in the middle of the street, attacking anyone and anything in sight, the usual enraged emotions paled in comparison to the vengeful thoughts in his head.

Families wouldn't be the same. Too many mothers and fathers and sons and daughters had been beaten in the streets, some horrifically maimed and others unable to survive their brutal beatings. Even more vile acts like rape and sodomy had gone unabated. While the Batman had managed to stop a few, too many had been left unimpeded until it was too late.

So when he stood on the Powers Hotel, one of the tallest, most opulent buildings in the city, it was with a seething anger that demanded satisfaction; vengeance for the terrible acts that had befallen this night. Currently, the owl-shaped gargoyles that gazed over this wounded city from their stone perches on the building were joined by one of the rioting thugs, the man hanging upside down by a cable tied around his foot. The dark-clad man felt no remorse as he let his captive fall several stories before being dragged back up, his terror-filled screams doing little to placate the vigilante. The cable was currently wrapped around one of the stone owls above Batman, using it as a makeshift pulley as he pulled the goon up.

"Jesus Christ...Jesus Christ..." the thug was sputtering as he came to a stop in midair, dangling in front of Batman.

"He won't save you," the dark-clad man growled, catching the goon's attention. "Now unless you tell me exactly what I want to know, you're going to be finding yourself falling again and this time, I might not stop you from hitting the pavement."

"_Jesus Christ,_" the thug repeated shrilly as he began thrashing about. "Somebody help me!" he screamed.

"Wrong answer."

Loosening his hold on the cable, the thug dropped out of his sight, his screams echoing off the building as he pludged towards the unforgiving ground below. The vigilante could feel the cable burning through his gauntlet as it slid through his grasp. Counting in his head, he finally clenched his hand and stopped the falling man, the thug slamming against the side of the building as the sudden stop in his fall caused a whiplash effect.

Beside the Batman lay his grapple, the source of his cable. Reaching to it, he grabbed it and hit the retraction button, holding it until the terrified man returned to his sight. Once the man's torso was even with the dark-clad man's face, he reached out and grabbed the thug by his collar, yanking him closer to him. "Ready to talk?" he asked, boring his eyes into him.

"Alright, alright! I'll talk!" he hollered. "Just don't drop me again!"

Batman was tempted to drop him, just to further prove he was in control of this situation, but resisted it. "Tell me everything you know about the riot."

"It was the boss' idea," the man immediately responded. "Said we needed to show everyone that it was our turf."

A turf war versus civilians? He didn't buy it. "And who is everyone?"

"You know, the cops, the other gangs…" he then hesitantly added, "...you."

This time, the Batman gave into his urge and let the man fall again, his screams once again echoing throughout the night. Again, he stopped the fall and pulled him up, this time with the man crying, "You're crazy, man! Crazy!"

"I'm running out of patience," the Batman calmly stated, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

That got the thug's attention as he jerked his head towards him. "No, wait, wait! There…there was this guy, see. Weirdest looking guy I ever saw. Had these bandages on his head like he'd been hurt there. He went to the boss and talked with him and then the boss comes out and says that we have to show everyone how strong we are. That we have to kill the Bat. That's all I know, man, that's all I know."

For the first time that night, the Batman believed him. He was alarmed about this bandaged man, but he seemed to be the source of this chaos. "I think we're done here."

"Done? Done how?" the man demanded.

Grabbing him by the shirt again, the vigilante pulled the man towards the building where he slammed his forehead against the thug's. Instantly, the man went limp as he fell unconscious. That settled, the thug would be waking up in a jail cell soon enough. However, this new player on the streets was unsettling to Batman. He needed to know what this man's endgame was and the only lead the vigilante had was with the man the thug had met earlier in the evening.

Seemed he was going to have to pay the gang leader a visit.

* * *

_GOTHAM BLEEDS_

_By Vicki Vale_

_The streets ran red with the blood of innocence. For no reason other than cruel brutality, one of the many gangs that reside in the fallen city of Gotham choose to launch a full scale riot that left 38 people dead, 58 others wounded, and millions of dollars in property damage._

_Throughout the streets families were torn apart as husbands, fathers, and sons were beaten and broken by baseball bats, pipes, and brass knuckles. Wives, mothers, and daughters were dragged away to be savagely raped before their rapists granted them mercy and killed them._

_As this carnage raged, the police force was incapable of quelling it. If it wasn't for the actions of the vigilante simply known as the Batman, there is no telling what the toll this attack would have had on this city's citizens._

_What does it say about Gotham that a man has to don the guise of a bat to fight crime? What does it say about the police force that they cannot perform the jobs they have been assigned to do? What does it say about an embattled commissioner who was seen shaking hands with this vigilante? And more importantly, what does it say about the mayor, who campaigned on cleaning up these very blood-soaked streets mere months ago?_

_There are no easy answers for these questions. That any politician thought that his landslide election win would allow him to demand cooperation from the city's criminal element is laughable. To be convinced that a police department with an extensive history of corruption and incompetence could suddenly get its act together and stop a crisis as serious as the infamous Night of Ice, much less last night's riot, is nothing more than a delusional dream beheld by naive activists._

_It has become painfully clear that something dramatic must be done. The criminals of the city do not fear the political elite or the corruptible police officers. It has become quite obvious they hold those sort of people in laughable contempt._

_But the Batman? Now, there is someone they fear. Take a trip into the GCPD jail cells and you'll see them flooded with crying men, their bodies rightfully broken and shattered. Many deserve worse, but for now this punishment is enough until they are locked away by the city's judicial system. Unlike the mob families of Stromwell and Loman, gangs don't have the same financial ties to judges and civil servants, so their incarceration should go without question._

_Yet, what does it say about Gotham that it must rely on a vigilante? Is this just replacing an old evil with a new one? Was the commissioner's handshake an agreement with the devil himself?_

_Again, there are no easy answers for this. As it has become painfully obvious, there is no knight in white, shining armor coming to Gotham's aid. She needs all the help that she can get and she'll take it from any quarter. For now, that help is coming in a much darker form and that's all she can rely on at this point._

_A Dark Knight._

"Pretty dark stuff here, Vale."

Vikki refrained from rolling her eyes. "And every bit of it is true, Harry," she countered.

Her editor held his hands up to pacify her. "You don't see me arguing, do ya? I'm running the piece, so don't get your panties in a knot."

The redhead's shoulders sagged in relief. Finally, _finally_, she was getting off the bench and back into the field.

"Though it still ain't as good as that first one of yours," Harry added.

Though it pricked her, Vikki kept her cool. Those words were being thrown around her a lot lately, though they had died down after Lane had left. They were really starting to annoy her though. Still, she had to maintain a professional image. "So when do I get my next assignment?"

Harry stared at her for a moment before sighing. "The only big story I've got is the police commissioner's IA investigation, but I have Carl on that. There's also that Wayne Enterprises attack, but that one has Feinstien and he's gotten me bupkis on it. See if you can't get anything, I don't care how. Sleep with Wayne if you have to."

Vikki flashed a smile. "You can count on me."

* * *

The internet was truly a place of wonder. At times you could find exactly what you were looking for and at others you had to comb through link after link in a vain search.

Elliot was once again reaquainted with both sides as he had used this electronic source of information to gather all he could on the Batman. From news articles he was able to determine how long the vigilante had been at this, though a precise date was elusive. Photos of the vigilante's victims continued to paint the picture of an expert fighter as well as a man who had access to some high tech gadgets. The distorted image of a sleek, black vehicle encased in ice was a testament to this caped and masked man's access to more advanced gadgetry and high-tech equipment.

However, none of it really allowed him to get into the Batman's head. None of it revealed any details of the man's fighting style, or any hints into the true extent of his abilities. That was where the flip side of his electronic searching came in. There were hardly any videos that some fortunate or unfortunate pedestrians happened to take when the vigilante was around.

With the idea of the Batman being a well-equipped and high-tech crime fighter, it stood to reason that he might have been taking proactive measures to prevent being filmed and recorded. Of the recordings that did exist, the majority came from major news outlets, but those all involved the infamous Night of Ice.

He was going to have to rethink his approach. Had he been smart enough, he would have recorded the Batman's actions the previous night. From what he himself had seen, he had more knowledge on the masked man than anyone else did. So what could he do to expand his knowledge? The first idea that came to mind was planting cameras all over the city and hoping that the vigilante would slip up and get his image captured.

That would take a lot of money and resources that he found hard to justify. It was impractical and it stood the risk of exposing him. Again, last night proved that the Batman had strong observational skills. Perhaps the chance of light reflecting off a lens or several lenses would clue him into this scheme.

The risks weren't worth the benefits there.

What else could he do? Elliot could do what he did last night and set up various crimes so that he could personally watch his opponent in action. Naturally, there was a risk of exposure with him being spotted and that only increased with each staged crime. That risk could be lowered if he watched from a distance, binoculars being a good option there. He would need a disguise just in case he was spotted.

All this thinking was starting to give him a headache. He needed to take a break and come back at this with a more fresh perspective. With that Elliot left his study and headed for the kitchen, taking care to close up his computer. Though the risk was incredibly low, who knew who might be watching, physically, and/or electronically?

He wasn't going for a glass of the bourbon this time. Not even scotch. He needed a clear head for this and alcohol would muddle his thoughts too much. A glass of water would have to be a substitute then. He need not worry about the working staff as he had dismissed them earlier in the day.

That was something he was going to have to change. Eventually he would have to let them get back to their full-time jobs. A major change like firing them all, or putting them on paid leave could arouse suspicions. Normalcy was the best facade that could be purchased. Or not purchased. It was something that could be achieved with behavior and actions. He would have to craft a good illusion that could survive intense scrutiny and come out unscathed.

So many issues, so many problems. This was a challenge, one Elliot hadn't had in a long time, but it was still frustrating that there were so many little things he had to watch out for. It would all be worth it once he emerged triumphant, he told himself. The redhead was going to be glad that he paid attention to these seemingly inconsequential details.

His shoes squeaked against the tiled floor of the kitchen as he made his way to a cabinet. Hmm, wasn't what he was looking for. Now where did the help put the glasses? Opening one of the cabinets, Elliot gazed in. Not there. He opened another cabinet. Or there. Another cabinet. Ah, there they were.

A small victory there and he smirked to himself as he opened the freezer next and grabbed a few ice cubes. The next destination was the sink and after filling the glass up with a generous amount, he shut the faucet off and wandered his way to a counter. He sip at the cold water, staring straight ahead as his thoughts returned to the conundrum that was defeating the Batman.

It was obvious the redhead needed to learn more about him. Observation would be key. Keeping a leash on his expenditures was also mandatory. Yes, he had billions to spend, but there was that image of normalcy that needed to be maintained. He was going to have to get a grasp of his spending habits, figure out what was normal from him, then use it to determine what he needed to spend it on.

Elliot frowned as he heard an odd noise, something metallic in nature. It was like a banging and yet not. A tremor maybe? It was hard to describe what it was. Were the pipes settling? Didn't make sense to him, but he was not quite up to date with anything involving home improvement.

Now where had he been? Oh yes, expenditures. Depending on how much he typically spent, that would determine what he could possibly do. Hmm, how much did he have in his bank accounts? The ones in the Caymans and Switzerland? The ones that weren't under his name for tax purposes?

Okay, that noise was back again. Now it sounded like metal creaking. Yes, that was better than banging or settling. Creaking. But what would cause metal to creak?

Elliot shook his head. He was getting off track again. Who cared about some creaking sound? He'd put the help on that when they returned. He had more important things to—there it was again. Now, however, it was louder...and closer. He turned his head toward the sink just as that noise occurred again.

Was there something wrong with the sink? The plumbing? What was responsible for it?

There was no warning as a brownish sludge burst out from the faucet, spraying into the sink and filling it within seconds. Elliot was startled enough that he dropped his drinking glass to the floor, the glass shattering and spilling water onto the tiled floor.

In a display of sentience, the sludge spilled out of the sink as it began to overflow, yet it did not splatter all over the place like with his shattered glass. The sludge piled up on the floor like mud, rising higher and higher until it began forming a humanoid shape. The doctor watched as two thick trunks became legs and a torso formed on top of them. By now he was having a good idea of what this was, but instead of being freaked out he waited patiently for Hagan to form a head.

Though, he was not going to lie, he was pretty freaked out right now. It was weakness to show it and he was not weak by any stretch.

If he hadn't known Hagan was an actor, he would have sworn the man had a taste for the theatrics. The head didn't form until very last, after two thick arms with beefy fingers shot out from the torso, and only then when that ugly, slimy mug made its debut that the unfortunate test subject of Elliot Pharmaceuticals speak.

"What happened to you?"

Elliot blinked and unconsciously raised his hand to his face, the feel of bandages meeting his skin and...oh...that. He hadn't taken them off yet. He was going to have to change them anyway, but for the time being he would keep them on.

"Accident," the redhead shrugged. "It's not really important. I think a more important question would be what was that all about? You could have used the door instead. How did you even do...what you just did?"

"Oh, yeah, a seven foot tall mud monster walking up to your front door would hardly go without notice," Hagan said sarcastically. "Why don't I just put up a big banner on your house telling the Bat that this was where I was coming. What are you, a moron? I just fought that freaking Bat-freak and barely got out of there in one piece!"

Elliot narrowed his eyes at the moron comment. If there was one thing he wasn't, it was a moron. He would get back to that in time, but for the moment, "Yes, I noticed that Wayne Tower was still in one piece. What happened?"

"Aren't you listen to me? I said it was the Bat!"

"And I am asking for details. What specifically happened? How did the Batman chase you out?"

"He threw me out of a window. Next thing I know I'm a giant ass puddle in the street and somehow not dead."

God damn it, this was like the internet all over again. Here he had a source, a living, breathing, direct source of information, but he wasn't getting anything important out of it. "Now I'm curious. You're what, twice his size? How'd he throw you out a window? And a puddle you say?"

Hagan glared at him. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were hoping the Bat got to me. Did you set me up? Huh?!" At this, the former actor stomped his legs as he moved towards the redhead threateningly.

"Not at all, Matthew, now calm down. I heard about what happened and tried my hand at disposing of this thorn in our side. This vigilante is more clever and resourceful than either of us had thought." Elliot was strict and commanding in his tone. "Nonetheless, right now he is the thing that stands between the both of us and Wayne. That means he has to be taken out first, if you know what I mean."

"And I should listen to you? You're the one that got me in this mess!" At this, Hagan shot a hand out and grabbed Elliot by his torso, lifting him up off the floor. "Now fix me up, you bastard!"

"I would if I could, but while I do have some resources, it's not enough to fix this, Hagan," he calmly retorted. "I have no access to the labs at my company. Who knows what Wayne has in his. That places you at a standstill. I'm your best shot at correcting this and if you kill or hurt me in any way, you can kiss your life as an A-list actor goodbye."

Hagan looked horrified at that, much to Elliot's satisfaction. However, something went on in the brute's head and his mouth twisted into a snarl. The next thing the doctor knew, Hagan had thrown him into the next room, flying until he hit the back of a couch and flipped over it, landing on the floor head first.

"I see what you're doing," the actor said as he entered the room. "I've seen it a hundred times, in my movies. The bad guy always manipulated the side characters into doing what he wanted. Well, guess what? I'm not falling for it!"

Oh great, the chump chose now to grow a brain.

"I didn't become an A-lister for nothing," Hagan continued unabashedly. "I've played those roles too. I know all the tricks to convince someone to do what you want."

Elliot grimaced as he pushed himself off the floor. His head was pounding from the fall and he would be damned if he...huh, that was odd. Maybe that landing on his head was doing something because he could have sworn that the mud-like creature that was Hagan was...changing. He was...shrinking slightly. Becoming more angular. But that had to be a trick of his eyes. Shaking his head to clear up what was most certainly a hallucination, he refocused on Hagan and...maybe that hallucination hadn't gone away.

Hagan didn't remotely look like the monster that had thrown him from one room to another. He was about the redhead's height, but there was still that brown color that was fading away into blacks and blues and tans. Was there something in his water because...because right now it looked like Matt Hagan, Hollywood star and media darling, was standing in his living room. It was unseemly, but he was staring, his jaw slack as he could not think of a thing to say except…

"Look at yourself."

The very human face of Matt Hagan frowned at him. "What are you talking about?"

Looking away from Hagan, Elliot search for something, anything, and when his eyes spotted the grandfather clock, he growled, "Just look," as he directed Hagan towards the clear glass.

Fortunately, the actor did as requested and froze. Slowly, he stepped to the clock, staring into the glass reflection of him. "How…" he gasped out in shock. "It's...it's me…"

However, the longer he stared, the more he noticed the change as one side of his face began to droop downward, changing back into that familiar clay color. It then swallowed the rest of his face as his deformed head reappeared. "No. No, no, no!" he cried as one of his arms bloated unnaturally and resumed its previous form. Soon, the mud monster form was back and Hagan's horrified cries were filling the room.

Even though Hagan was finding himself in the middle of a real-life horror movie, Elliot on the other hand was coming to grasp with what had happened. These were side effects of his facial cream that he had never contemplated before. This ability that Hagan had just displayed, there was something valuable to be had there.

He winced as Hagan destroyed the grandfather clock as he fell into a rage, slamming his beefy fist into it. That had been something, ironically enough, that had belonged to his grandfather. Oh well, he had hated that ticking noise anyway.

The ruined clock aside, Elliot needed to take control of this situation before Hagan decided to take his anger out on him.

"Matthew. Matthew, listen to me."

The deformed Hagan swung his head around to glare at him maliciously.

"Calm down, Matthew. Listen to me for a moment."

"Why?" Hagan snarled. "Listening to _you_ is what got me into _this_ in the first place!"

"Did you not see what you did? For a moment you were yourself. You were Matt Hagan."

Hagan paused at that. "Yeah…" he said hesitantly.

"From what I saw, you did it unconsciously. You changed from this...to yourself in your prime. I think it was that role you did, that remake of that old Basil Karlo movie."

"Clayface," the actor responded wistfully. "I was nominated for an Academy Award for that role."

"Yes, the combination of both your talent and your hard work. An achievement that very few can meet. Right now, we are in a similar moment, Matthew. You have a talent, one that you showed just now. Like with your role, we need to add some hard work into it before showing you off to the world in all your splendor." Elliot's voice was soft and patient, but his words were addictive and toxic. He could see that Hagan was absorbing them, greedily drinking them in.

"All we really need to do is practice."


	12. Your 11:30 Is Here

The matter with Elliot Pharmaceuticals was getting out of hand. Well, maybe not out of hand, but it was definitely causing some headaches. Bruce had expected the company to squirm its way out of any inconvenient matter, but to go so far as to deny the police access to their production line and research was the equivalent of throwing a monkey wrench in the works. Then again, he had expected the police to pursue the company a little harder than they had. All in all, a disappointment from all sides.

So when the police lieutenant Gordon had mentioned showed up at Wayne Enterprises, Bruce took the steps to influence the investigation. Of course he couldn't blatantly give out everything his corporation had, but he could make sure the police got the relevant information. While delivering everything on #EP3409 could have been accomplished by the next morning, he had an assistant delay the transfer for a couple days to make sure it didn't appear as if they were too eager to assist. Business associates and partners who were already keeping an eye on Wayne Enterprises couldn't be allowed to see them as a willing snitch at the first opportunity; it was better to appear reluctant, even backed into a corner. Though if one really thought about it, his company was in a corner. Stockholder confidence was falling like a stone and the board was getting antsy from the increased scrutiny on their business practices.

This Elliot mess was only going to get uglier before things began to get better.

Of course, the billionaire had copies of everything that was delivered to the GCPD on his desk for his own perusal. Considering his alter ego was following, if not leading, this investigation, he needed to be sure he knew everything the police knew, including the information he provided. The better part of his morning had been looking through all the research and the internal investigation report on Hagan's allergic reaction to make sure he knew every word, every letter, and every form of punctuation that could be found. It was tedious work, but then everything he did at Wayne Enterprises fell into that category.

So when his intercom came to life, it startled him out of his reverie. "_Umm, Sir?"_ his secretary began, "_Your 11:30 is here…"_

Bruce frowned. An 11:30 appointment? He didn't have an 11:30 appointment that he was aware of. Couple that with his secretary's confused tone and the dark-haired man felt that someone unexpected had shown up. Of course, he couldn't exactly respond with annoyance; he had a reputation to uphold. Hitting the talk button, he let his voice go up a few octaves and answered, "I have an 11:30?"

Releasing the button, he waited until the secretary replied, "_According to this woman out here, but I can't find it any_—"

_Woman? Damn it_. Grabbing the reports on his desk and shoving them into their folder, he felt a growl working his way up his throat. His playboy reputation demanded that he see who this woman was, if only to confirm whether he should, as the media put it, make her another notch on his proverbial belt. It was inconvenient at the moment, but appearances must be kept. Placing the stuffed folder into a draw in his desk and shutting it, he then quickly straightened his suit and ran a hand through his groomed hair to make sure he was presentable. Hitting the button again, he said, "Send her in, Jessica." Adding a leer to his voice, he continued, "If she says she has an appointment, then she must have one."

"_Yes, Mr. Wayne."_

A few moments passed before the door to his office opened, revealing a young, fairly attractive redhead. A quick scan of his clothes told the billionaire that this woman knew exactly who her audience was and had planned accordingly, choosing an outfit that drew attention to her shapely legs and generous cleavage. There was a sly look coupled with a teasing smile on her face as she greeted him. "Good morning, Mr. Wayne. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."

Bruce returned the smile with a charming smirk. "What kind of gentleman would I be if I left a lovely woman like you out in the cold?"

The redhead's smile grew as she approached his desk, moving to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of it and crossing her legs one over the other. "I see Gotham's favorite son does have a chivalrous streak in him. I wonder what other surprises you have in store."

"Speaking of surprises, I don't believe I've had the pleasure in meeting you. You are?"

"Vikki Vale, Gotham Star."

Vale, so this was the infamous reporter that snapped his picture with Gordon. He had been under the impression she was a shark on the lookout for blood. Perhaps it was time to get better acquainted with her if only to confirm this suspicion. Letting his shoulder sag slightly, he leaned back into his chair, giving off the impression of mild disappointment. "And what can I do for you, Ms. Vale?" he asked indifferently.

"I'm sure you're aware of what someone in my position would be looking for," Vale answered, leaning forward and giving him a better look down her blouse. In answer Bruce tilted his head to give himself a better look and show she had his...attention...such as it was. "There was an attack on your corporate headquarters by some kind of monster, which was driven off by the vigilante, Batman. Every reporter in the city is after any answer to explain it."

"Everything Wayne Enterprises has to say about the incident has been said to the police," Bruce drawled, making sure he sounded and appeared distracted by the redhead's booby display. "If you have any further questions, you can direct them to the PR department."

"Of course, though I can't say I'm all that interested in that story."

Bruce couldn't help tearing his eyes away from the reporter's cleavage and stared at her coy blue eyes. He allowed himself to look at her in disbelief for a moment before going into a skeptical expression. "Then what's the point of you holding a fake meeting with me?"

"Because my editor put someone else on that story," she said offhandedly before adding, "and there's a different story I'm interested in. As I see it, Wayne Enterprises has been taking some hits lately. First that top secret experiment your company held a couple months ago and now this attack; stockholder confidence has been shaken and your stocks have been falling."

"Go on," he prodded.

"I figured you would like to set the record straight; show the rest of the city, if not the world, that Wayne Enterprises is not your typical corporation. Accident have happened, yes, but they were clearly out of your control. Every major news outlet is writing stories as if you intended on being attacked. No one else has reported that you were working in conjunction with a pharmaceutical company up until a couple weeks ago, who then quietly slunked off, letting you take the fall. Now _that's_ a story that interests me."

Bruce contemplated this. Ordinarily he wouldn't jump into a battle of "he said, she said" through media outlets, but this did present an opportunity for him. Vale seemed to be on the trail of Elliot Pharmaceuticals and said company was being quite uncooperative as of late. Perhaps he could leverage this. "That does sound like an interesting story, Ms Vale," he acknowledged. "I suppose we should set up an actual appointment for you."

Suddenly, the redhead whipped out a notepad and pen. "I'm ready for the interview now," she said.

Bruce smirked and shook his head. "Not that kind of appointment. I was thinking dinner with some wine, candlelight, and maybe something more...adventurous."

If the idea of a story interested Vale, his offer lit her eyes up with a fiery passion. "Take me," she immediately responded before coughing abruptly. "I mean, dinner sounds great."

Smirking, Bruce hit the talk button on his intercom and asked, "Jessica? Do I have anything planned for tomorrow evening?"

There was a moment of silence before his secretary replied, "_You have a dinner with Mayor Krol to_—"

"Reschedule that would you? Something...came up."

"_Yes, Mr. Wayne._"

By now, Vale was glowing in anticipation. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow night, Ms Vale," Bruce said. "Oh, and if you wouldn't mind, nothing complicated? After a hard day's work, my fingers aren't that able to handle complex toys."

"Oh believe me, Mr. Wayne, you won't have to work that hard."

Grinning at her, he watched as the reporter stood up and left, swaying her hips back in forth teasingly until she exited his office. The moment the door closed, the billionaire's face hardened. He had some research he needed to do. Picking up his phone, he dialed in a number and waited patiently until he heard, "_You have reached the Daily Planet. How may I direct your call?"_

* * *

With the offering of a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, Essen made her way to Ji—the commissioner's office knowing full well that the man within was attempting to pull another all-nighter. Personally she disapproved of it because the amount of stress that went along with such a thing would put a person in their grave sooner rather than later. Yet she understood the late nights.

Sometimes a person with the commissioner's responsibilities had to do it. The amount of paperwork and duties that came with the position was excessive. A person with Ji—the commissioner's character would do his best not to fall behind. From Gotham's history, previous commissioners were not as motivated to keep up with the work. They were more busy with appealing to those in power, regardless of their standing in society. As a result, some things got lost in the shuffle.

Of course, none of those commissioners had an IA investigation with someone like Forbes on their asses. Thorough was one of the more polite words that could be used to describe how Forbes dogged the commissioner on a daily basis. It was now a necessity that Gordon keep up with all the work he was responsible for if only to give the IA agent one thing less to use against him.

She was in luck this evening; the commissioner hadn't closed the door to his office. That made it easier for her to enter while holding a coffee cup in each hand. Hey, she might as well get a caffeine fix while she was at it, not that she was using it as some kind of excuse or anything. With a foot, she could gently push it open and reveal the hardworking man behind the thickly-cluttered desk working his life away.

From behind his desk, Gordon glanced up at her then returned his gaze to the documents we was going through. "Staying late tonight, Lieutenant?" he asked. Not even taking a break and attempting to multitask. She would have shook her head at the sight, but decided not to. It wasn't her place to reprimand whom she held great respect for.

"To catch up with some things," she answered. She offered one of the mugs by placing it on the man's desk. Without even looking at it, he picked the hot beverage up and took a sip from it. Had he even tasted it?

"Thank you," he said, not removing his eyes from the documents.

She grunted in reply, though one would hear it as an "mmm" instead. Following his lead, she took a sip from her own cup. She didn't sit down, instead preferring to remain standing.

"Didn't know how you liked it, so I guessed. Two sugars and a milk seemed appropriate," she told him though it was a bit late for warning.

"Three sugars, personally, but right now I could care less. It all tastes the same at this point," he told her.

Three sugars. Good to know for future coffee offerings.

"How are you holding up, Commissioner?" she asked after several moments of silence.

"Between you and me, not good." The man's shoulders seemed to sag at this confession. "On top of my usual load, I have Forbes practically camping out in my office. I admire his tenacity, but at the same time you think he would get the clue that there is nothing to find. Already I've given him all my financial records from the time I was emancipated. At this rate he'll be wanting my school records." The commissioner shook his head, looking older for a moment.

"Best not say that out loud. That might be the very thing he asks for in the morning," Essen advised.

Gordon snorted. "How's progress on the Elliot Pharmaceuticals tip?"

"Usual runaround except Elliot Pharmaceuticals have blatantly said they won't cooperate." Wasn't that the truth. All of her calls had only been returned to inform her to contact their lawyers whom would throw so many legal statutes at her that it gave her a headache. "Wayne Enterprises appeared cooperative, but it took them several days before they sent anything our way. Right now I'm trying to get my hands on some of that compound that the two of them were working on so that the lab boys can have something to compare that sludge too. For the time being its sitting in their freezer collecting ice."

"Then it appears that the only one who has anything going for him happens to be a media darling," the older man concluded.

Essen was drawn to a newspaper that sat innocently on Gordon's desk, an article catching her eye due mostly to the prominent amount of space given to it. Though her vantage gave her an upside down view of it, it wasn't too hard to make out the word "Batman" in the article's headline.

Ah yes, public opinion was certainly in the local vigilante's favor. After that riot about a month ago, there had been a surge of support for the "Caped Crusader" as one news outlet called him. The fact that his actions had made the police department look bad had earned him some enmity, especially from the men on the streets. Certainly there were supporters who were out on the beat, but the majority were holding a grudge.

Though, after seeing the scene of the massive crime, Essen had had a hunch that there was more to the riot than met the eye. The gang responsible had blocked law enforcement and emergency workers from reaching the epicenter of the riot was very suspicious. Most gangs didn't have that kind of forethought. This gang in particular was known for being brutish, almost thug-like, and not for its brains.

On that note, there had been more than one gang member who kept blaming the incident on a bandage-faced man, but that information had led absolutely nowhere. Most likely they were making it up. By now, the bandage-faced man was right up there with the bushy-haired stranger—a mythical criminal that did not exist, but was responsible for half the crimes in the nation.

"What's the mayor's opinion about it?" she asked, knowing that if any question were to be ask, it needed to be about something relevant and actually affected them.

"What is there to say? He's furious," Gordon shrugged. "I think I was in his office for a record amount of time listening to him. Hadn't had to do that since Loeb went on permanent vacation." The graying redhead shook his head. "Batman's interference undermines Krol and any political ambition he has. Remember, he ran on a campaign of cleaning up the city and having a department that's not performing in a way that makes him look good is not good for him."

"So no light at the end of the tunnel for the Forbes experience, hm?"

"Not at all. I think the mayor is getting regular updates from Forbes. Both of them must be tearing their hair out right now."

"Because they haven't found anything to use against you," she finished.

"Yet," he added. "There's probably something I have that I don't remember that they'll pounce on. Until then, I'll just have to weaken their position by doing the best job I can here so that when they make their move, it'll be harder for them."

"Harder how? And how do you know Krol is involved?"

"Other than him mentioning a few key pieces of information that only Forbes should know about? Don't think my skills have rusted just because I'm higher up on the ladder. I've always known that my time in this position would be limited. I'm surprised I've lasted as long as I have. As for making it harder, what problems do you think they'll have trying to fire a man who did his job? It may not be the best job, but it will make it more like a power grab and that was something Krol ran against."

"I see." A nice way to flip them the bird as he left, that is if he wasn't arrested for having any involvement with an illegal vigilante.

"So for the time being, I thank you for the cup of Joe. Now, if I were you, I'd be more interested in my cases. Who knows, you might be the next commissioner who gets the luck of having Forbes up their ass."

"Not likely. As if the city is progressive enough to put a woman in charge of law enforcement." Essen took another sip of her coffee, noting the heat emanating from it. A little milk and some cream for her, no sugar.

"Stranger things have happened, Lieutenant. This is a city that had a mad scientist try to freeze it solid and now a mud monster attack its most iconic corporation. With that in mind, you in my seat is not so unlikely, is it?" Gordon raised his his mug up to her, as if toasting her, and took a sip. However, his eyes were now on her and twinkling merrily, a much better sign to the lieutenant than his preoccupation with his paperwork.

"Your confidence in me is appreciated, Commissioner." Really, what else could she say to that?

"Keep up the good work, Lieutenant. Don't let me down, you hear?"

She gave a sharp nod, yearning to fulfill the older man's expectations. Letting him down was not an option. "Yes, Commissioner."

Gordon waved off her response. "Call me Jim. All my friends do."

She paused. "How many do you have?"

"I can count all of them on one hand."

Then she would have to show him that she would be worthy of that honor. "I'll see you later, Jim."

* * *

"Second stall on the right," the guard said as he opened the door. Oswald just continued to scowl as he lumbered through the doorway and into the visitor's room. His hands were cuffed together at the wrists and the irritatingly orange jumpsuit was ill-suited for his squatty form. He walked with a limp, courtesy of the Bat. Just the thought o' that freak set his teeth on edge. When he got out o' here, the first thing he was doin' was findin' that flying rodent and rippin' him apart, piece by bloody piece.

Comin' to the stall, he plopped himself into the rickety wooden chair and stared at the bulletproof window in front o' him. He could make out his reflection in the glass, see the jagged indention o' his broken nose, the faded yellowin' of bruises, particularly his eyes. The Bat hadn't gone easy on him, that was for sure.

He didn't have to wait very long in that uncomfortable chair. A rather stunnin' young woman soon appeared on the other side and took a seat in front o' him. Oy, she was a sight for sore eyes, yes she was. Long black hair, pretty face, red business suit. He licked his lips. The things he would do to her.

Reachin' to a side, the woman picked up a telephone and held it to her ear, lookin' at him expectantly. Copyin' her, Oswald picked up his phone and said, "Well ain't you a pretty lil thing."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Cobblepot," the woman greeted him, blatantly ignorin' his compliment. "My name is Candice Leopold. I'm here on the behalf of my employer."

"Course ya are. Who's your boss?"

"He wishes to remain anonymous at this point in time. However, he believes your current incarceration is unjust concerning the matter of your apprehension."

Oswald snarled. "You're talkin' 'bout the Batman. Go on, say it. No need for these euphemisms."

Candice smiled at him amusedly. She may have been a pretty thing, but he did not take well to being looked down upon. "Very well. My employer wishes to post your bail and make you a free man."

The squatty man raised an eyebrow at that. Colour him skeptical, but he didn't quite believe her. "And why would he do a thing like that?"

The dark-haired woman shrugged her shoulders, though it was more to say she didn't care rather than actually admitting to not knowin'. She probably didn't ask too many questions and did as told. He vaguely wondered if that also applied to the bedroom. "Because everyone deserves a chance at making something of themselves. You simply wanted to run your business before the Batman interfered."

Oswald stared at her before he began shiftin' in seat, movin' closer to the glass as he continued to give her a questionin' look. The Bat "interfered" with a lot of blokes, not just him. There was a reason he was bein' targeted with this offer. "And what is it your boss wants from me? Assumin' he gets me out o' course."

A coy smile appeared on Candice's face. "He wants you to do what you intended to do from the start: find a little niche in Gotham's underbelly, get rid of your competitors, and consolidate. That's what all respected businessmen do and you're no exception."

"A hostile takeo'er, eh?" Now, this was intriguin'. 'Course, there were always strings attached to deals like these. "What's in it for ya boss? I highly doubt the bloke is doin' this 'cause he likes my charmin' personality."

Candice shook her head, her hair draggin' across her shoulders as she did so. "That's confidential and not for the ears of prying ears, if you catch my drift." At this she nodded her head towards one of the guards.

"O' course, o' course, right you are, girlie." The short man had to admit, the dame had a point. He had been locked in this prison for too long; his brains were all goin' to mush. "So you plan on gettin' me out o' here. Then what?"

"I'll meet you on the other side and we'll go from there. Wherever you want, however you want. Just so long as you hold up your end of the bargain."

She'd meet him, eh? Oh, this could be some fun. "'right then. I'm in. How long is this goin' to take?"

The woman's smile widen, almost sinisterly if Oswald was honest with himself. Seemingly out of now'ere, she had a cell phone in her hand and placed it against her other ear. "How about in ten minutes?"

Oswald jerked back in surprise before he also began smirkin'. "You work fast, girlie. Just the way I like me girls." At this he began rapidly raisin' and lowerin' his eyebrows, to make sure she got his innuendo. Seein' her ignore his attempt put a bit o' a damper on his mood, but that was okay. He had some things he had to plan for. Some o' his boys on the outside were goin' to be gettin' some calls and a new headquarters was goin' to be needed. More men would also be needed if he was taking o'er Gotham.

Fortunately, he knew just the place to go for some quick recruits.

* * *

For those familiar with Batman: The Animated Series, you'll recognize Candice as Rupert Thorne's secretary from the show. At least, that's who I'm modeling this Candice after. It was a bit of trouble trying to find out what her last name was and I ended up using one of her aliases' names, the last one at least.


	13. Return of The Penguin

There had been murmurs throughout the streets. Whispers that Salvatore Maroni was on his way to take back what was his. There was even talk about it amongst the blokes Cobblepot had rounded up after his release.

Howe'er, unlike his boys and the wankers in the streets, Cobblepot knew better than to think the Italian was comin' back; the bloke was already here. There ain't no reason for someone to want to spread rumours around about them mullin' their return. Ya just did it and watched as the rats scurried about in a panic. That's what he would've done.

Maroni was old guard though, and old guard liked things in a specific way—their way. Since Maroni had been one o' the top dogs in this town, he had a lot o' things the way he liked them. Especially that little italian restaurant where he did a lot o' his business.

It was a quaint lil place. Made ya think of them lil dives the movies had where gangsters met up and made backroom deals that made entire cities tremble. Yet, it wasn't much for Cobblepot's tastes. Too small scale and not enough elbow room and he was a man that liked his elbow room.

A small bell ringed as the door opened and Cobblepot waddled through, an umbrella bein' used as a makeshift cane for his limp, his goons filin' behind him like a small army. This definitely got the attention of the restaurant's customers and help. For such a lil place, there were an awful lot of brutes in suits. Why, someone might've said this was mob turf.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Cobblepot greeted them. "I'm goin' to have to ask all of yas to leave the buildin'. There's been reports made to the health department and they sent me to investigate. So please, get your asses up and out o' 'ere."

Quickly, many people got up and walked towards the front door. His boys parted to let them out, yet there was still some blokes that clearly didn't get the message. In fact, they was lookin' at him with scowls, their hands reached into their jackets to pull out their guns.

"Now, now, I wouldn't do that if I was you," Cobblepot warned. "In case your eyesight is bad, I'm sure you can see all o' me boys behind me and their automatics they each are holdin'. Now, if I were a bettin' man, I'd put my money on me boys fillin' you up like swiss cheese 'fore any of you managed to pull out your guns. So here's the rub: sit your asses down in your booths and keep your damn mouths shut. If ya don't, your brains are gonna be splattered on these 'ere walls and it would be a real shame for the help to have to scrape your skulls off o' them." Raisin' a hand up, he snapped his fingers and four of his boys walked out in front of him, pointin' their guns at Maroni's goons. "Are we clear?"

None o' the men looked happy, but they finally got the message. One by one they sat down, each one glarin' at the squatty man—not that he cared. "You four stay and disarm 'em," he ordered as he began to talk towards the back of the restaurant. "The rest with me."

More o' his boys filed into the restaurant as they moved further in. Cobblepot led his entourage into the kitchen, not even havin' to gesture his desires as his men would stop and shove one of the kitchen staff into the wall, pointin' a gun at their head to make sure they got no wise ideas. They soon reached a door in the back—Maroni's office. Comin' to a stop, he pointed a finger at the door and two o' his boys moved in front of him. Aimin' their machine guns, they unleashed a torrent o' bullets at the door, the explosive blasts echoin' throughout the kitchen and makin' the sound even louder. When they ran out o' bullets, they immediately began to reload as the rest of his men marched by them, kickin' down the rest o' the ruined door and into the backroom.

When he heard one o' the boys shout out, "Clear!" the short man made his way into the room. Maroni's office turned out to be a bit small for his tastes. A big desk with several chairs in front of it and a small counter with liquor bottles. Sad thing was, the liquor had been on the opposite side of the room, right in front of the door, so broken glass containers and spilled alcohol was everywhere on that counter. A shame, really.

There were a couple of dead men in the chairs, also bein' unfortunate enough to be sitting with their backs in front o' the door. There were two other blokes, but they currently had gun barrels pressed into their necks, each man restrainin' them with a handful o' hair in their grasp. And behind the desk sat Maoni, who apparently had the luck to duck behind his desk to avoid the bullets. He was currently bein' forced into his bullet-ridden chair and he clearly did not look happy.

"What the hell is going on here?!" he roared as his head darted from one side to the other, a wild look on his face. When he finally caught sight of Cobblepot, his nostrils flared as he demanded, "Are you behind this, midget? You have no idea who you're messing with!"

Cobblepot ignored the jab at his height, instead choosin' to walk up to the desk. There, towards one o' its corners was a wooden box. Flipping the lid open, he picked out one o' the cigars hidden in it and stepped back. Lookin' to one o' the chairs with a body in it, he stared at it long enough for one o' his boys to get the hint and remove the corpse. Smirkin', he then took a seat in it, hangin' the handle of his umbrella on the arm so he could reach into his pocket and pull out a lighter. Lightin' the cigar, he puffed on it to make sure he had a good burn before he leaned back in his chair and blew out a rather large cloud of smoke at the Italian.

"Mr. Maroni, it's a pleasure to meet ya," Cobblepot greeted him. "I've heard a lot about ya."

Maroni just glared at him. "Then you know you're a dead man right? No one attacks my place of business and gets to live."

A smirk appeared on the short man's face. "That a fact? Ya know, I could've sweared I heard this story when I was abroad. Somethin' about this man dressed like a bat and breakin' into your home. Sounds crazy, I know, but what's even crazier is that I heard you turned chicken and hightailed it out o' Gotham. Now, Sally Boy, tell me I just heard a tall tail, nothin' more."

Maroni continued to scowl, but his hostility dropped tremendously. "Who are you?" he asked in a more sedate tone.

"Just a wanderin' entrepreneur. Though for some reason or another, ever since I came back across the pond, blokes call me The Penguin."

That got the Italian's attention. "You?" he questioned incredulously. "You're The Penguin?" He then snorted, which caused Cobblepot to lose his smirk. "And here I thought you were someone to take seriously."

Out of the corner of his eye, Cobblepot could see Maroni's boys were also grinnin' at their boss' humour. Returnin' his attention back to the mobster, the short man decided to drop all pretenses of cordiality. "Now listen, and listen real good, Sally Boy. I want what you have and you're goin' to give it to me. From now on, your gang is my gang. Your money is my money."

Maroni looked defiantly at him. "They wouldn't work for you. There's a little something called loyalty in this city, but I wouldn't expect some British piece of shit like you to understand that. It'll be a cold day in hell before that happens."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry 'bout that," Cobblepot replied, his smirk returnin' to his face. Lookin' to his right, he stared at Maroni's man and asked, "How do you feel about workin' for me, wanker?"

Maroni's man looked at him haughtily and shot back, "I wouldn't work for a midget like you."

"Figured you'd say that." Tiltin' his head up to get his boy's attention, he nodded his once. The goon grinned wickedly 'fore he moved his gun up to the side o' Maroni's man's head and fired his weapon. The side o' the man's head exploded out, flingin' out blood that splattered on the wall, floor, and a couple of Cobblepot's boys.

As the man slumped in his chair, Maroni yelled, "The fuck are you doing?!"

"See, Sally Boy, your blokes don't have a choice," the Penguin explained, inhalin' his cigar before blowin' out a smoke ring. "Either they work for me, or they die. Simple, ain't it?"

"I swear to God, if it's the last thing I'll do, I will kill you," Maroni seethed.

Starin' at the Italian, Cobblepot began to bob his head as he considered those words, glancin' to the burning end of his cigar 'fore he leaned towards the desk, placin' the cigar on a nearby ashtray. "I had the feelin' you'd say somethin' like that," he admitted as he grabbed his umbrella and held it up, pointin' its end towards Maroni's head.

There were two buttons on the umbrella's handle. One would open the umbrella, which he didn't press. Instead, he pressed the second button and felt the umbrella jerk back into his shoulder from the recoil as it fired a shotgun blast. Maroni's head exploded in a gusher o' skull, brain and blood, splatterin' the backwall of the room.

Cockin' the umbrella, a used shotgun shell bein' spat out as he did so, Cobblepot lowered his weapon and moved to pick up his cigar, knockin' off the ash at its end as he tapped it against the ashtray. Leanin' back into his chair, he took another large puff, blowin' out the smoke 'fore sayin', "I believe that ends our negotiations."

* * *

Batman stood atop the skyscraper, eyes shut even though no one would be able to tell. The presence that had been stalking him for months was ever watchful though, something that needed to change. He had held back from doing anything drastic, mostly because there were other more pressing matters at hand. He couldn't very well leave an attempted murder or rape because his paranoia was getting the better of him.

However, there were quiet moments where the city held its breath between crimes, a veritable calm before the storm. One of those times was upon him and right now the only thing he wanted to do was get rid of those prying eyes.

Previous attempts had allowed him to try confronting his shadow, but never resulting in success. Whoever it was didn't want to confront him, not just yet at least. So if it was a fight they wanted to avoid, then they were going to have to earn their viewing of him.

Holding his arms out at shoulder level, the vigilante took a deep breath before he leaned forward, allowing gravity to take hold of him as he began falling along side the building. The wind whipped at him, attacking his face and body, his cape flapping behind him wildly.

Languidly, he opened his eyes, seeing the street far below slowly growing bigger as he drew closer to it. Reaching to the back of his belt, he pulled out his grapple and fired it at a nearby building. Feeling the cable go taunt, he began swinging through the air, no longer falling as he began moving towards the building in front of him. Hitting the retraction button, he was soon zipping upwards. His momentum allowed him to clear the edge of the structure once he reached it, landing further along the roof. Once he touched down, he went into an all-out sprint, racing across the rooftop and leaping off of it once he reached the other side.

Firing the grapple again, Batman was swinging through the air again, this time angling the swing around the next building. However, the next building was much taller with a large antenna on top of it. Angling himself, his careened between the two buildings, aiming for the fire escape on the taller building. He made contact with the iron bars as he rammed into the metal railing. Grabbing onto it, the vigilante hauled himself onto the landing and began climbing up the steps until he reached the top. By then he had retracted the grapple and was ready to fire it again. When he reached the top, he then fired the grapple up towards antenna. A second later he was being carried up towards and over the roof. Hitting the release button again, the claw released its hold and he landed on the roof. Again, he was running, but this time he pocketed the grapple, choosing to activate the electric current in his gauntlet.

Reaching the building's edge, he leapt off of it, reaching back to grab his cape. Instantly, the cloth stiffened and he aligned his body to glide with it. His earlier momentum had allowed him to gain some speed, but he needed a little more. Tilting downward until he was falling headfirst to the street below, Batman waited until an alarm went off in his head, screaming for him to stop his high velocity fall. At that moment, he leaned backwards, allowing the glider to use the rushing wind around him to give him a boost, rocketing him up skyward.

Turning to a side, he angled himself so he could get a look at the tall building he had just left. It wasn't much, but he could make out a figure on it, or at least their shadow flitting across it. He frowned beneath his mask. If he wasn't mistaken, there were two moving shadows…

Returning his attention to gliding, Batman once more dived down towards the street, losing sight of the tall building as he disappeared between two others. Again, he leaned back and used the wind resistance to give him another speed and height boost. However, he didn't allow himself to move above the tops of the buildings. Instead he angled his flight to stay between them, gliding down one street before turning onto another. Due to the speed boost, he was like a rocket moving between them, walls of stone, cement, and glass blurring all around him.

Unfortunately, he couldn't maintain this height for long. Seeing a two story building with a billboard on it, he altered his glide to move towards it. Once he reached it, he released his grip on his cape a moment before landing on the billboard. Instantly, he had his grapple back out and was aiming it up to another tall building next to it. It was a rather odd combination, such a tall structure next to a much shorter one, but that was the fault of the architects and city planners. Launching the grapple, he was soon, flying up through the air until he reached the top, feet settling down on the roof and again he was moving.

However, instead of again launching himself off of it, the dark-clad man came to a stop on the other side, looking over the edge. A strange feeling had settled over him at that moment. He...he couldn't feel the eyes anymore. For once in quite sometime, he was not being watched. Even throughout his chase he could feel himself being followed, a set of eyes on him at all times. That had disappeared when he had begun flying between buildings and landed on the billboard.

Without that paranoid feeling weighing on him, Batman felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. In fact, the air seemed cleaner for it as the vigilante took in a deeper breath.

It was a shame this feeling wouldn't last. No doubt those eyes would find him sometime later tonight, or at best tomorrow evening. However, he at least had some sort of confirmation that _someone_ was out there—make that multiple someones. This required further investigation.

But until then, he was going to enjoy this moment for as long as it lasted.

* * *

Flashing lights lit up the street from which a well known mob front was located. Well, maybe it wasn't an obvious front since it did make a mean spaghetti plate, but this fine establishment was known for belonging to Sal Maroni, the mob boss who'd skipped town several months back. Apparently he came back at some point and, from the look of things, had decided that the tomato sauce needed some improvement.

Or at least someone did, Bullock mused to himself. Not enough oregano? Probably wasn't it. Blood was a pitiful replacement for a pasta topping. Brains could not take the place of meatballs, at least in the sergeant's book.

Glancing to a side, he noticed that his rook was looking a bit green at the gills. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that this was her first murder. Not possible if you were a beat cop but still.

"Coming out for some fresh air?" he asked aloud.

Montoya paused before nodding hesitantly.

"I know the feeling," the older detective shrugged. "Italian food and dead bodies do not mix."

What was that? Was that...the way her shoulders shook it looked like she was trying not to laugh. Ha! Take that Essen! He knew he could get something other than professionalism out of his rook!

"Still, it confirms the rumors were true. Maroni was coming back." He held up a toothpick and placed it in his mouth, fiddling with it before adding, "Key word being was."

"Who do you think could have done this?" the Rook asked.

"Ain't it obvious?" Bullock shook his head. "My money's on Cobblepot. How he got out, I have no idea, but when I find the guy that cut him loose, you can bet someone's going to the hospital. Speaking of which, what kind of name is Cobblepot? Don't matter what your first name is, having a name like that is like asking for someone to beat you up."

"What makes you sure it's him?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten already. Before he got his hands on the Com'mish's kid, he was pulling stunts like this all the time. Really shook up the mob. Now that he's out, it looks like he's picking up where he left off." Then off-handedly he added, "I also called up Blackgate earlier today. Guard said the midget made bail." Looking back at the restaurant, he then shook his head and remarked, "You have to be a real character to shoot a man's head off with a shotgun. Messy."

"So what's the plan? How are we going to nail him?" Look at the balls on Montoya. Sure she didn't actually have them, but from the way she spoke it was like she was ready to go after the son of a bitch herself. He could respect that. Truly he could.

"The way we always do it, Rook—By the book. Hopefully he left something behind that we can connect to him and bam! We'll take him down again. Hopefully without any bats getting in the way."

"You don't really like him, do you?" Montoya was focused solely on him and Bullock didn't care if what he said next offended her or not.

"He's breaking the law. Remember, vigilantism is illegal. I don't approve of it anyway." His teeth clenched harder on the toothpick.

"What if he helps again. Stops Cobblepot?" Montoya asked.

"If it can get that bastard off the streets where he ain't kidnapping little girls, I'll take it, but don't expect me to like it. Now lets go back in there and do our jobs, Montoya. Don't forget that we're the cops, not some freak in a Halloween costume." Bullock pulled out the toothpick and stuffed it into his pocket. Best not to contaminate the crime scene with his own DNA or whatever gunk it was those lab geeks got hard-ons for.

Into the restaurant he went, the rook following behind him. On the floor there were a couple of bodies, both with shots to the head. Even he didn't need a coroner to figure that one out.

He recognized one of the men; he was a perp he had busted a couple years ago. Mob lawyer got him off and now the large man was here looking at the guy's corpse. Not the way he would have wanted it to go down. With the two in here and the five in the back, there were seven bodies and nearly all of them were execution style. Sort of.

Two looked more like swiss cheese, but the others were all headshots. Blood and brains all over the place.

However, Bullock had the feeling that there should have been more here. Maroni was a guy who'd have more than six people guarding him. The four that were discovered in his office was reasonable for a guy like that, but two in the main eating area? There should have been more. A lot more. Something wasn't adding up to him.

"Find anything boys?" he called out.

"What you see is what you get, Sergeant," one of the officers answered.

"Not good enough. You're GCPD; do a better job and don't let those guys in Keystone show us up again. I want every inch of this place combed over and then do it a second time. If that Penguin guy has anything to do with this, I want to be able to nail his ass with it."

He didn't pay attention to any replies as he marched to the backroom where the center of this circus was. Maroni's dead body might not be leaving anytime soon, but Bullock was not going to let it lie there. He wanted some tests done to make sure one of the biggest crime bosses in Gotham was truly dead and not, you know, faking all this.

He had his doubts about there being any faking, but he had to be sure. Unless he was truly dead, Maroni wouldn't stop until he got back his piece of the Gotham pie. Neither would Cobblepot, though he was trying to take something he never had in the first place.

Bullock paused as he didn't hear any footsteps behind him. Where was his rookie? Wasn't she just behind…?

When he sent a questioning glance over his shoulder to the woman who was definitely not in the kitchen or behind him, he heard Montaya say from the kitchen entrance, "I'm going to go collect some statements."

He shrugged. Sure, more dead bodies for him.

"Yeah, I'll take care of things from this end. Don't let them push you around, Rook. If you need me to make them friendlier, you know where to find me." Was she rolling her eyes at him? Hmm, didn't look like it from here. Maybe his eyes were tricking him. His rook had nothing but respect for him, didn't she? Yeah, that's what he thought.

With that resolved, he turned his attention towards the schmucks in the backroom, or would do so once he reached said backroom. Despite how lightly he seemed to be taking things, Bullock was having a feeling that this was only the start of some thing to come. Call it a hunch, a police hunch even. A big time mobster gets his head blown off was only the beginning. There was going to be a lot more dead bodies before it got better.

That was how the events that led up to the Night of Ice started. First a big time guy like Moxon gets iced, then the rest of the mob follows. Unlike that where it was a damn vigilante doing it, what he was seeing now was not going to be anything like that. No, he suspected that it was going to involve a lot of bullets instead.

Hopefully the perp responsible this time slipped up. If so, then Bullock was going to have a field day with his ass.


	14. Turf War Shootout

Perhaps it was a sign to Bruce that every upscale restaurant he had attended were beginning to look the same. Elaborate ornamentation, fancy china, and an entirely too bright atmosphere for his tastes greeted him as he entered the building. The host immediately recognized him the moment he saw him. As he was ushered in, he took note of the violins and cellos being placed off in a corner of the joint. At least he have some soothing music for this.

The billionaire was late. Late because it was practically expected of him and he sure didn't want to sully that reputation. Besides, his date tonight wouldn't mind too much even if she were pulling her hair out of head in frustration. Everyone forgave his tardiness.

And as he expected, Vikki Vale sat at their table, a rather lovely white dress covering her body he had to admit. She hadn't seen him yet and was visibly annoyed. He expected that to change in 3...2…

Turning her head then, she caught sight of him and the host and her face immediately lit up with a smile. "Your table, Mr. Wayne," the host presented with a bow. Ignoring the man, Bruce instead walked up to Vale with a charming smile on his face. Coming to a stop next to her, he reached down and picked up an elbow-length gloved hand and raised it to his lips. kissing it gently. "Many apologies, Ms Vale, but had I known you would look so stunning, I would've shown up much sooner."

"I'm sure you have a good reason," she responded.

Moving to take a seat in the chair opposite her, he explained, "You wouldn't believe the traffic at this hour. I mean, who decides to have a wreck on the largest bridge in the city? You would think they would be more considered of people's time."

"I'm sure they didn't mean it. How could they know we were having a date?"

Bruce shrugged his shoulders. The fact there actually had been a wreck was of little consequence other than to make for a good story. The wreck had in no one, shape, or form prevented him from getting here. "I'm here now." Catching sight of the host standing nearby, he then picked up the wine menu. "How about something to drink?" he asked, seeing the redhead eagerly nod her head in response. "Hmm, let's see...how about the Chateau Leoville?"

"A fine choice, Sir," the host replied before scurrying off.

"So Ms. Vale, I believe you wanted an interview?" Bruce began as he set the menu down.

"We don't have to worry about that now," Vale jumped in. "Why don't we get to know each other a little better?"

"Pleasure before business?" the billionaire quipped. "While I would love to indulge, my father always taught me to take care of my work first. That way I can spend as much time as I want on the _fun_ stuff."

"I never took you to be someone who followed priorities, Mr. Wayne."

"Neither did I, but keep that a secret. Wouldn't want to rest of Gotham to figure me out."

Vale smiled widely. "You're not who I expected you to be. Might I ask why you keep this part of you secret?"

Bruce could see the inner journalist in Vale recording everything in her memory. She was in full-on investigative mode. Time to lead her on a merry chase. "Well, if people caught on to me, they'd just give me more work to do. And between you and me, I hate work. It's so time consuming. There's so much more to life than just work, work, work. Brucie likes to play, play, play."

"So you would see this is all a front?"

"A front, no. More like me taking my more lazy qualities and blowing them up. Though of course if you write this down somewhere and it just so happens to be printed, well, I will deny it with my every breath and more."

"Oh, no worries, Mr. Wayne, your secret is safe with me."

Bruce just gave her a winsome smile before dropping his eyes from hers to her inviting bosom. She was going strapless for the night and was doing everything she could to prop up her assets. Might as well reward her for her efforts. "That's nice."

"You're welcome."

Visually shaking his head, he looked up at the reporter, letting a lost look appear on his face. "Welcome for what?"

He could tell Vale wanted to roll her eyes, but she resisted the urge. After all, one didn't do anything to annoy a rich man, or at least someone they viewed as their meal ticket. "For keeping your secret."

"Oh, I wasn't referring to that, but thanks."

Letting his eyes wander back down, he did observe the redhead staring at him for a moment before realizing just where he was looking. A rather predatory smirk appeared on her face, her eyes twinkling with excitement. She leaned forward in her seat, giving him a better look at her cleavage. "I suppose you have other interests you'd like to...explore."

"I do."

"Such as?"

"Deep sea diving."

That seemed to lose her. "Wha?"

Bruce looked back up to her with a grin. "I always did enjoy diving into very deep places. Exploring valleys between rounded mountains, looking for booty and the like, probing dank, dark caves that grow tighter the further you go on."

It seemed his innuendo was received, further enticing the woman. However, before they could continue, a waiter had appeared carrying their wine bottle and glasses. "Good evening, Sir, Madam. I am Steven and I'll be your waiter for the evening." Setting the glasses down, one in front of each of them, he popped the cork out of the bottle and immediately began pouring the wine into their glasses. Once they were filled, he set the bottle down on the table. "Would you like to start the night off with some appetizers?"

"I could go with some oysters," Bruce remarked. A quick glance to his dinner companion showed him that she wasn't too fond of that suggestion. Well too bad. He was sure she would go along with it once he hinted about his intentions.

"One moment, Sir," the waiter said before leaving.

"I can't say I'm too fond of oysters," Vale spoke up a moment later.

"That's a shame," Bruce replied. "Oysters make for an excellent aphrodisiac."

As expected, Vale lit up in anticipation. "Is that right?" She really was quite simple to manipulate, which was quite dull to dark-haired man. Surely everyone knew by now about oysters and their qualities. Maybe Vale was playing dumb, but he got the impression she wasn't all that good at pretending.

"Of course. Would I lie?"

The redhead shook her head in response. "Good," Bruce said before continuing, "but I'm afraid that pleasantness can wait. We do need to cover some business here, Ms. Vale."

Disappointed, Vale asked, "Such as?"

"How about you tell me just what you found out about Elliot Pharmaceuticals. The last time we met, you mentioned a very intriguing theory."

Though he appeared friendly, Bruce watched her with the eyes of a hawk. He was going to get to the bottom of this reporter's story before the dinner was over. A solid message needed to be sent from Wayne Enterprises to the rest of the world and one journalist writing out an alternate version based off of an "anonymous Wayne employee" would undermine that. To avoid that, he would twist this woman's story to serve his own purpose.

And Vale would be none the wiser for it.

* * *

The Pinkney Museum was a massive building. Easily the size o' three city blocks. Cobblepot had always wanted a place to call his own, some sort o' mansion or the like, but this would due just dandy.

"So, think you can handle this, lil girlie?" the Penguin asked, holdin' his burnin' cigar out in front o' his face as he stood out in front o' the museum. Next to him stood the Candice lady, a lovely peach amongst all these goons n' ruffians.

"I can," she said dismissively, then added, "but I don't see why you need me to do this."

Cobblepot took a hit o' his cigar, lettin' the burnin' smoke fester in his legs before he exhaled. "Way I see it, you work for the bloke that got me out. Since he went out o' his way to get me out, he'd like to help me any way he can. Right now I need me-self an assistant, someone with a more feminine touch. So, he would let me use you for that job, am I right?"

Candice stared at him for a moment before slowly noddin' her head in response.

"There we go, so you work for me now. Now, your first job is to go talk to the curator here and persuade him to sell this lovely buildin' o' his."

"Alright," she acknowledged before walkin' towards the museum doors, a couple o' the boys openin' the doors for her. Cobblepot made sure to get a good look at that swingin' fanny o' hers as she walked away. Mmmm, they didn't make 'em like that across the pond.

Takin' another puff of his cigar, the short man waddled up to the doors, followin' a few o' his men as they entered the buildin' behind the dark-haired woman. He came to a stop on the other side o' the doors and listened to Candice work her magic.

"Good evening, Mr. Deakins," the woman said in a welcomin' voice. "How are you this evening?"

"I'm sorry, Madam," a rather wimpy voice responded. If Cobblepot wasn't mistaken, this curator was a girlie man. Pfft, figures. "But you're going to have to come tomorrow. The museum is closed."

"Oh, I'm not here to see the museum," Candice replied. "I'm here on behalf of my employer. He wishes to buy this building from you."

There was a gasp, followed by a few sputterin' sounds before the girlie man managed to spit out, "I beg your pardon?!" Oy, he sounded outraged, didn't he? "The Pickney Museum is not for sale! I'm going to have to ask you and these…these ruffians of yours to leave—now."

"Don't be hasty," the woman said, not the least bit taken back by the curator's answer. "Money is not an object here. Just name your price and you can go home a very wealthy man. Just think about it: You could buy the art here to form your own collection, maybe even start your own museum."

Cobblepot had to admit, he liked the sound o' that offer. Had he been the girlie man, he would o' taken it without another thought. Howe'er, this Deakins fellow didn't seem to think the same way. "I've had just about enough of this nonsense. Please vacate the premises, or I shall call the police."

Well, that was that for these negotiations. "Now, now, I wouldn't do that if I was you," the Penguin said as he moved further into the buildin'. His men stepped out o' his way until he reached Candice and the curator. He was taller and thicker than Cobblepot had imagine him to be. Older too, with greying hair that was beginin' to thin on top. The gent had turned his head to look at him through thin-wired glasses.

"Who are you?" Deakins demanded upon seein' him.

"I'm the bloke wantin' to buy this lovely establishment o' yours," the short man said before he took another puff of his cigar.

Deakins frowned. "As I've told your associate, the museum is not for sell. Now if you please, this building is non-smoking. Put out your cigar."

Cobblepot stared at the girlie man before purposefully raisin' his cigar up, takin' a longer drag from it, and blew smoke at him. "There's goin' to be some new rules here, one o' which is this no smokin' business."

"I said, I am not selling—"

The Penguin snapped his fingers and three o' his boys pulled out their guns, aimin' 'em at the curator. That shut the bloke up mighty quick. "Now listen 'ere wanker, I've got a new proposal: either you give me the deed to this buildin' or me boys here will blow your pansy ass head off your shoulders, and _then_ I'll take the deed. So what'll it be?"

Deakins looked petrified at the guns pointed at him. "I...I...the deed is...in the back…"

"Good boy," Cobblepot praised him. "Smalls, Doogan, have the gent here show you where the deed is and be sure to bring it to me." Turnin' on his heels he began venturin' further into the museum. "As for the rest of ya, make yourselves at home."

As Smalls and Doogan disappeared with Deakins, the rest o' the boys began floodin' the place, carryin' wooden crates into the museum. Cobblepot just looked about the place, takin' the time to stare at a paintin' that caught his eyes here and there. Heck, the place had a giant dinosaur too; always wanted one of those. Eventually he came to a room and spun around to face his forces and the lovely Candice. "Alright boys, listen up," he declared. "This is our base o' operations. I don't want anyone that ain't part o' the gang in here, understand?" Seein' that he was understood, he continued, "Now, there are a couple o' blokes that need to be takin' care of. We got the chinks on the other side o' town and we got that Stromwell fella that's been makin' moves on my turf. I want you wankers to show Stromwell that we here to stay, capiche?" He paused to take another puff on his cigar, findin' it was comin' to the end of its life, much to his annoyance. Tossin' it away like garbage, he said, "In these boxes, you'll find e'erythin' you'll need to show those blokes what for. Now go out and make me proud."

There was a loud cheer, followed by the sound of the crates bein' dropped on the floor. Lids were ripped off, revealin' the polished barrels of automatic weapons, boxes of ammunition, and ready-to-use grenades. Eagerly, the boys went to town, grabbin' e'ery weapon they could hold.

"Is that all for tonight, Mr. Cobblepot?" Candice suddenly asked him, standin' right next to him.

The Penguin smirked as he looked up to the dark-haired woman. "Oh no, dearie, we've only just started."

* * *

Once the Vale matter was settled, it hadn't taken long for Bruce to take his leave for his planned nightly pursuits. The redhead had been disappointed, though the dark-haired man had been sure to give her a good-bye grope to leave her wanting more. For a moment he had considered having a taste of what was being offered, but his blood was beginning to boil for other reasons. One change of attire later and he was out on rooftops, the dinner long forgotten.

It had started off as a quiet night. Usually that was a welcoming feeling, but with the events of the last couple of nights, it just set Batman's teeth on edge. It was more like the calm before the storm, the city holding its breath for the latest incident to occur.

It didn't take too long for that to happen.

The vigilante heard it through the air. Gunfire and a lot of it. Instantly he had leapt off his perch and grappled his way to those horrific sounds. It was mere minutes before he arrived at the scene and he was caught off guard by the carnage he found.

The street was a mess. One of the buildings had been an obvious target as it was littered with bulletholes. In front of it were men in suits, each one taking cover behind damaged cars, blue federal mailboxes, and whatever cover they could find. Every once in awhile, one of them would pop off a few shots before taking cover again.

On the other side was where most of the gunfire was coming from. These men looked like hoodlums, each one with a vest on. On the back of several of the vests were odd black markings. If he wasn't mistaken, it was some sort of bird. While these thugs had also taken cover behind cars, there were more of them standing up, firing off automatic machine guns, and laughing with glee. There was a nearby truck as well, parked in the middle of the road right next to the parked cars. The back of it was wide open, reveal more weaponry inside.

Taking another look at the damaged building, it didn't take Batman long to realize this was one of Stromwell's places. Just great, another turf war and it was brought right to the doorstep of one of the remaining mob families in the city. Maroni had been one thing, a coup in the dark underbelly of Gotham, but this was out in the open. Fortunately any innocent bystanders had fled the scene, leaving only these miscreants.

A hand raising to his belt, the vigilante began to plot his move. He had to take out the attacking side first. That wouldn't be hard considering he was on the rooftop of one of the buildings behind them, one to their left. They'd never see him coming. Once they were taken care of, Stromwell's guys would undoubtedly begin taking shots at him as well, so he'd have to take them out too. Then again, these guys looked older, more experienced. They weren't the trigger-happy young guys that were joining the families nowadays. They'd probably try to assess the situation first before firing and may just back off. It was because of this that the dark vigilante hadn't come crashing down on Stromwell like he had the other families. They were a lesser evil amongst a whole lot of evil.

However, that's when things took an ugly turn. An unseen man exited out the back of the truck, a swagger to his steps. Resting on one of his shoulders was a long tube that made the Batman's eyes widen. _Where the hell did he get that bazooka?_ Just the sight of it made his blood boil.

"Stand aside, stand aside ladies!" the man proclaimed as he moved away from the truck and then came to a stop, turning to face Stromwell's men. His comrades had stopped shooting as he had walked by, only to pick up gunfire once they had a clear shot again. "Let me show you how it's done!"

It was instinct that threw Batman off the roof as the thug went down on one knee and aimed the bazooka. It was instinct that allowed him to point his grapple at an approaching streetlamp and fire it, the grapple claw hitting and taking hold of the overhanging post. The cable tant, he quickly began arching through the air, swinging his legs out in front of him, and releasing this hold on the grapple. He closed in on the thug in seconds, his feet making contact with the rocket tube and pushing it to a side, just as the man fired the weapon.

The rocket launched from the tube with a hissing whoosh. However, instead of hitting Stromwell's side of the street, the rocket flew right into the open truck and detonated. Batman had only just landed on the asphalt, the thug behind him crashing onto his side by the sudden attack, when the explosion burst out. The force of the blast nearly threw the vigilante off his feet, had he not crouched down as close to the ground as he could, pulling the flap of his cape in front of his face for cover.

Batman's ears were ringing, but he fought through it as he slowly brought down his cape, glancing to the attacker thugs. All of them had dropped behind their respective covers the moment the explosion rang out. He didn't have much time. Baring his teeth, he pushed off the road with his legs, powering forward as he ran to the nearest car. As he closed in, he leapt into the air, his hands making contact with the roof of the vehicle. Pushing down, he leaned to his right and swung his legs up and to the left. His momentum carried him over the roof the car, his legs soon extended out in front of him just in time for a thug to raise his head up. His bottom of his boots slammed into the man's face, snapping his head back and causing him to fall to the ground. The Batman landed on the ground just as the back of the thug's head hit the sidewalk, rendering him unconscious.

Before him stood a line of five men, each one slowly moving out of their crouched stances, only to freeze upon seeing him.

That hesitation cost them as the vigilante launched himself at them. The first man instinctively raised his gun up in a futile manner as the Batman shot a hand out and grabbed onto barrel, forcing it to the opposite side of his body. Bringing an arm across his chest, bent at the elbow, he lashed it out, slamming his elbow into the side of the man's head and forcing him to ram the other side of his face against the car next to him.

As the man dropped, Batman leapt over his falling foe and swung a roundhouse kick at the second thug. That man had just barely gotten his gun up before the vigilante's foot made contact with the side of his face, also causing him to hit the vehicle next to him much like the first man.

Using his momentum, he spun in midair, cape flying wildly behind him before a foot touched down on the ground. By the time he completed the spin, he had retrieved three bat-shaped shuriken and launched them through the air. The first projectile hit the third and fifth thugs' hands, causing them to cry out in pain as they dropped their guns. For the fourth thug, the shuriken slammed into his face, knocking him out as he dropped to the concrete sidewalk.

A moment later he was on the third thug, embedding a fist into the man's stomach, followed by an uppercut to his chin that snapped his head back. With his left hand, he grabbed the man's belt, and with the right the man's shirt. With a grunt, he lifted the man off the ground and tossed him over his shoulder. The thug cried out as he flipped over and over through the air, the vigilante pausing long enough to glance behind him and watch as his foe landed on the ground on his head.

That just left the fifth and last thug, who was gaping at him in fear, clutching his injured hand. Batman lunged at him, his cape splayed out behind him, making him appear much like the monstrous creature he claimed to be. Fist drawn back, he launched it at the screaming thug, nailing him in the face and knocking off his feet. The moment the vigilante landed on the ground, the back of the man's head collided with the sidewalk, knocking him out cold.

A stoic look on his covered face, Batman slowly stood up, turning his head to his right and seeing Stromwell's men staring across the street at him. One of them had raised a hand up, shaking it from side to side, his head twisting left to right and back left as he demanded no one shoot. _Smart man_.

Staring right back at them, he let his white lens unnerve them for a moment before he walked out from behind the car. Off to his right, the bazooka-toting thug was pushing himself off the street, groaning as he did so.

The Batman strode to him and reached down, grabbing him by the back of his collar and hauling him up onto his feet. With his other hand, he grabbed the thug by the front of his shirt and threw him towards the cars. The man cried out as he was flung, grunting with pain once he made contact with the vehicle. The vigilante closed in on him in less than a second, shoving the thug's chest up against the car. Batman made sure the side of the man's head was pressed up against the car window so that he could at least see the dark-clad man with one eye and with that eye the vigilante held the points of his triangle blades right in front of it.

Feeling the man stiffen, the Batman felt confident he had the man's attention. "I'm only going to ask this once," he growled. "Who are you working for?"

The man stood there frozen before a wide grin split his face, causing the vigilante to frown. "I'm with the Penguin's crew," he declared proudly.

The grin soon disappeared when the man noticed the scowl that appeared on the Batman's face. "Wrong answer." Backing off a half-step, the vigilante gripped the thug's shoulder and spun him around. With his other hand, he slammed a fist into the man's gut, forcing the air out of his lungs as he let out a pained gasped, bending forward from the blow.

Letting go of the man, the thug dropped to his knees as he held his gut, trying to suck in as much air as he could. Raising a leg up, Batman stomped down on the breathless man's back, making him cry out weakly as he collapsed onto the asphalt. Adjusting his stance, the vigilante then moved his foot to between the thug's shoulder blades and lightly dug his heel in. "Now let's try this again," he spoke calmly. "Who. Do. You. Work. For?"

The man gasped out before replying in terror, "I swear, it's the Penguin! He got out of prison and's been rounding up the old crew!"

Batman leaned down and said lowly. "You're beginning to wear out my patience."

"Jesus Christ, I'm not lying! I swear on my mother's grave!"

A frown was on the vigilante's face. How the hell did Cobblepot get out of jail? Who had the audacity to let out a man who kidnapped the police commissioner's daughter? "Say I believe you, how did he get out?"

"I don't know, man. I was just with the boys when he comes barging in and says we're taking over Gotham. I didn't ask any questions and neither did anyone else."

Upon digging his heel into the man's back, he screamed out, "I'm telling the truth! He rounded us up and we went to Maroni's! Penguin blew the guy's head off and took over the Italian's gang!"

Batman clenched his fists. He could feel the rage welling up within him. Not only had someone unleashed that little bastard, but he already was racking up a body count. Someone was going to pay for this. "What's the endgame?" he demanded.

"What else? He wants Gotham."

"Of course," Batman spat out. This was all he was going to get out of this thug. Raising his foot up, he then slammed it down on the back of the man's head, finishing the interrogation as the man went limp.

With an abrupt about-face, he stormed away from the scene. He had a prison that needed to be investigated and then Cobblepot to find. It was infuriating to find out a man he had hunted down was back on the streets causing mayhem. The next time they met though, he wouldn't just break the man's nose. It would be his legs and anything else that made life convenient for him.

* * *

To Guest: You left out the Crownes, though they may be a recent addition. As for the mob families, there's plenty to pick and choose from, it's just a matter of searching.


	15. Battle at Stromwell's

Arnold Stromwell sat at his desk, a dark look on his face. The room was dimly lit to suit his mood. The last few days had been rough on not only him, but his boys. This Penguin thug was upsetting everything, destroying the delicate balance of Gotham's underworld, and in turn this was upsetting him.

When he got upset, he turned to drinking. He was a brandy man at heart and a glass of his favorite vintage was held firmly in his hand, a crystal container sitting on his desk with the stopper lying next to it. Raising the glass, he took a sip, letting the familiar burn flow down his throat.

Something had to be done. Stromwell had been content to just sit back and let things play out, what with Falcone and Moxon out of the picture. Of course, their turf was ripe for the taking and no one could fault him for taking a share of it. Hell, the China man had been gobbling up as much as he could, but no one was assaulting his men on a nightly basis.

And unfortunately, Loman seemed comfortable with the changing landscape. He didn't mind that the Penguin was running roughshod on the city, so long as his boys were left alone and perhaps a share of spoils flowed his way. Meanwhile, Stromwell's boys were dying out there. Property that had been considered safe for them was turning into blood baths and all those classless punks were gleefully enjoying it. A counterattack was in order; however, the location of Penguin's base of operations was currently unknown to him. In fact, no one knew where the runt was holing up.

Loud popping sounds jolted him from his musings, causing the elderly man to jump in his seat, turning this way and that to locate the pops. He knew the sound of gunfire when he heard it. A gentle knocking diverted his attention to the door then. When it opened, one of his trusted lieutenants stepped in, looking dour as always. "Sir, we have a situation," he said.

"What's going on?" Stromwell demanded.

"Penguin's gang's showed up. They're outside right now and are attacking the gates."

Stromwell shot up out of his chair, causing it to crash to the floor behind him. Storming over to a window, he looked out of it and stared in anger at what he saw. Two U-haul trucks were parked haphazardly in the street before his house, along with several smaller cars and trucks, men with machine guns pouring out of them and opening fire. A brick wall that surrounded his house was getting pelted by bullets, Stromwell's men taking cover behind it as they scrambled to lead a counteroffensive.

"That little worm," Stromwell seethed as he spun around to his lieutenant. "This is the last straw! I want Penguin's head on my desk by dawn, do you hear me?!"

A loud explosion answered him then, causing him to jerk back around and look at a freshly blown hole in his brick wall, several of his men scattered in the courtyard limply. Penguin's men began pouring through the hole, shooting at anyone that moved. However, this left them wide open as the men by Stromewell's house began unloading their weapons at the breach, slaughtering the attackers mercilessly.

"Sir, you have to get out of here," his man said, some urgency in his voice. "These men are out for your blood and—"

"And what? I turn tail and hide?" Stromwell interrupted him in anger. "No, this has gone on long enough. If I don't take a stand here, then I might as well leave Gotham!"

Stromwell heard a gunshot, this one coming from right outside of his office. His lieutenant dropped to the floor, the side of his head gushing out blood. Before the elderly man could move, two men stormed into the room, pointing their guns right at him. They were both dressed as Penguin's thugs, the bird symbol prominent on their jackets. Oddly enough, one of them had chains of shell casings wrapped around his body.

"Oy, I believe we're finally in agreement," a thugish, accented voice said. Heavy footsteps were made until a squatty little man appeared in the doorway, an umbrella in hand. He stepped right on top of Stromwell's man, raising up into the air before coming back down as he stepped onto the floor.

"You," Stromwell growled.

"Is that all you've got to say?" the Penguin asked, looking stricken. Then, his face twisted into a cruel laugh. "Wha-ha-ha-ha-ha! What do you take this for? Some bloody picture show on the telly?"

"How dare you enter my house."

"Oh, believe me, I woulda been here sooner if you'd listed yourself in the yellow pages," the short man replied in amusement. "I can't tell ya how many broken arms, legs, and knees I had ta go through just ta get your address. Imagine my shock to find out ya don't even lock your back door." He then made a tsking sound. "You might want ta remember that for next time."

Stromwell clinched his hands into fists. "What the hell do you want? Why are you here?"

A smirk appeared on the runt's face. "Why, I'm here to negotiate your terms o' surrender."

* * *

Enough was enough.

Batman gripped his steering wheel tightly as his car roared through the residential streets of Gotham. Cobblepot's high-profile attacks on Gotham's underworld were getting out of hand. Where he got the idea he could stroll through the city, killing anything and anyone that stood in his way was beyond him, but an example had to be set tonight. No more wanton violence and destruction; no more vicious killings of any kind. This was his city and anyone that thought they were above the law would find themselves sorely mistaken.

Turning the wheel to the left, his car began to fishtail as he made a sharp turn. This allowed him to keep as much speed as he could during the turn and he raced down the new street. Up ahead he could see the flashing lights of gunfire and the wafting cloud of smoke, most likely from some kind of explosion. There were vehicles of all different shapes and sizes in the middle of the road.

This didn't faze Batman at all. One of the modifications he had made to the car following the Night of Ice was making the front bumper and grill composed of titanium, shaping it in the right places to make it a virtual battering ram. Tonight, everyone was going to find out just how strong it was.

On the back side of the steering wheel were two switches, each one resting right above his index fingers. Adjusting his grip on the wheel, his fingers now lightly touched the switches, the vigilante waiting for the right moment to press them. He could hear the sound of his breathing, calm, steady, just like the beating of his heart within his chest. Faintly he wondered why he was so relaxed, even as he closed in on the approaching firefight. Something could be said about his mental state for even finding these moments soothing.

He pressed the switches simultaneously.

A loud boom roared behind him, a giant flame erupting out of a rocket port on the backside of the car. He felt himself pressed into his seat as the car blasted forward. There were two cars in front of him, sitting on either side of his approaching vehicle. They never stood a chance the moment the front bumper made contact, ripping through the metal and steel cars like they were tissue paper. The defining sound of screeching metal filled the air as the cars were spun around, hitting any unfortunate man that happened to be standing near them.

Pulling back on the wheel, Batman watched as the front of his car began raising up into the air, the afterburner propelling the vehicle further into the air as all four wheels left the pavement. The next thing he hit was one of the U-haul trucks, plowing right through the middle of it. He looked on as the side of the truck crumpled and gave way, metal and aluminum debris raining down on the hood and windshield. The other side of the truck provided the same pitiful resistance as well, giving way as he ripped through it.

Despite the damage he had inflicted thus far, his car still had enough flight to carry on into the other truck. This time his titanium bumper collided with the right side of the truck's cab, tearing through it and into the trailer behind it. By now gravity had begun reasserting itself and his black car began falling to the street. It landed on top of another car, flattening it as shrapnel and glass shot out. His car finally touched down on the pavement, its momentum still going as he pressed on the accelerator. He plowed through a couple of more cars before he spun the wheel, his car swinging around and finally coming to a stop.

This left him staring at the carnage he had wroth; yet, he wasn't done. During the spin, he activated the blast turrets that hid behind his headlights, extending them out and ready for use. Flicking off the tops of the steering wheel, Batman didn't hesitant as he pressed the small red buttons on top, firing his guns right at the damaged U-haul in front of him.

Another explosion erupted in the night, a fireball lifting the truck right off the street and high into the air. For several seconds it ascended before it seemed to hover in mid-air. Then just as quickly, it plummeted back to the ground, landing with a loud crash.

Removing one hand from the steering wheel, Batman flashed his fingers over a few buttons on the center control panel. A moment later, the turrets were returning to their place within the hood and the canopy of the car hissed before sliding forward. Seatbelt undone, the vigilante shot himself out of his car, a foot landing on top of the car canopy and using it to launch himself up into the air. The roof would slide back a moment later, just as he programmed it to.

Hands at his belt, he pulled out two flashbang grenades, one in each hand. With a sweeping arc, he threw the grenades, not caring where they landed. From where he flew through the air, he could see men sprawled out on the asphalt, though whether due to injury or worse was unknown. A few were starting to pick themselves up, even as other standing men were starting to overcome their shock by his entrance.

That would cost them as his flashbang grenades detonated upon hitting the ground. Thanks to his cowl, the deafening blast was nothing more than a muffled bang. The blinding light was a mere flash to him, but he could see the effects it had on the gunmen, all of them cringing in pain, hands going up to their ears or eyes, or some clumsily attempting to cover both.

Feet touching down on the pavement, the Batman bare his teeth as he charged. None of these men would be walking out of here on their own power. Not tonight.

* * *

"Surrender?" Stromwell repeated in disbelief. "The devil are you talking about?"

"Exactly what I said," Penguin replied as he hobbled over to a nearby chair, taking a seat in it. "Why don't you take a seat, eh? I'm sure you'll be wantin' to be off your feet when you hand over your turf."

The older man seethed and was about to tell the fat runt just what he thought about him when he noticed both of Cobblepot's men cock their guns. "As you can see, this ain't a suggestion," Penguin snarked.

Begrudgingly, Stromwell walked over to his chair, picking it up where it had fallen and sitting it upright, taking a seat in it moment later. Meanwhile, the shorter man had reached over to his cigar box and flipped the lid open, removing one of the cigars. "Oy, you've got good tastes," the Penguin complimented the older man as he looked the cigar from end to end. Chopping off one end, he then stuck it into his mouth and lit it up, puffing away at it as he made sure it burned.

As tobacco smoke raised to the ceiling, the Penguin finally said, "So here are your choices: one, you can hand your gang and turf to me and get out o' town. Be good 'bout it, and I'll let ya keep this lovely home o' yours."

"And my other choice?"

"I blow your friggin' head off and then take your turf. Either way, I'm takin' what's yours. Whether you live or die really don't matter much to me."

Stromwell glared at him. "And then what? You'll go to the next family and make the same offer? You really think Loman will accept it?"

Penguin took a puff on his cigar before flowing out the smoke towards him. "No, I ain't gonna bother them chinks with my civility. They got quite a bit comin' to 'em and I doubt they'd consider my generosity. All o' them squinty-eyed fishheads are goin' down. Chinatown will be redder than that damn chink flag o' theirs." He took another hit. "In the meantime, there's still you. So what will it be, Yank?"

Before Stromewell could answer, there was a loud crash from outside, followed by several more. One of Penguin's thugs hurried over to the window, and much to the older man's curiosity, seemed to pale. "Boss, the Bat's here," he announced, his voice shaking.

Penguin jerked his head to the man. "You're pullin' me leg," he snarled. A moment later, twin bangs rang out, deafening them as a blinding flash poured in through the window. It only lasted a second, but Stromwell found himself squeezing his eyes shut, his hands covering his ears. He tried blinking his eyes rapidly, only to feel a strong stinging sensation in his eyes. His ears were ringing, but they weren't too bad.

Penguin seemed to be in the same boat as him, blinking his eyes to clear them. His cigar was missing from his hands, probably dropping it to the floor somewhere. The man by the window, however, was lying on the floor, moaning in agony since he saw the entire thing. The other thug on the opposite side of the room was leaning up against the wall, he too trying to clear his eyes.

"Quit your bellyachin'!" Penguin barked then. Whatever pretence of "civility" he had had evaporated. Eying him, the short man demanded, "What's it goin' to be? Live or die, Stromwell?"

Stromwell glared at him. "I will never surrender to you, you piece of slime."

Penguin stared at him, before he leaned back into his chair in a huff. "I thought you'd be smarter than that." He then raised his umbrella, pointing its tip at the older man. "Guess I was wrong."

The last thing Stromwell knew, a bullet hit him right between the eyes, an explosion of pain erupting in the back of his head, followed shortly by darkness.

* * *

Batman was inside the house. All over the place, he could see Stromwell's men lying in blood, either injured, dead, or dying. There were a few of Cobblepot's men as well, but they were the minority here. Outside was the complete opposite. Every man, be they Penguin or Stromwell's, was lying on the ground unconscious, or in a severe amount of pain. He hadn't held back as bones snapped, teeth were forcefully removed, and heads cracked. No quarter would be given here.

The vigilante was currently in a large room, a staircase off to a side. On the staircase was another of Cobblepot's men, staring at the dark-clad man in fright as he clutched a pistol in his hands. Batman ran full out at the man, leaping up three steps on the stairs and pushing off. His other foot landed on the railing of the stairs a second later, which he used to launch himself at the man. Drawing back a fist, the thug screamed as the vigilante descended on him, Batman slamming his fist into the man's face and knocking down. The back of the man's head collided on the stairs, knocking him out cold as Batman landed on top of him.

Not stopping for a second, the dark-clad vigilante shot up the stairs two steps at a time, but only covered a few of the steps when another thug appeared at the top. This one had his gun pointed right at him and was not afraid to use it like his companion. Immediately, Batman leaned to his right, his hand reaching to his belt and pulling out a shuriken. At that same moment, a gunshot went off, the bullet flying harmlessly to his left. Shifting his weight to his other side, Batman leaned to his left, just as another shot went flying by, this time to his right. Meanwhile, he brought up his armed hand across his chest before he swung it out, throwing his bat-shaped projectile and watching it whirled through the air. A moment later, it hit the thug's hand, knocking the gun out of his grasp as he let out a howl of pain.

And he was on the move again, closing the distance between him and the man. Leaping into the air, Batman drew a fist back and lashed out with it, ramming it into the side of the thug's head, stunning him. Not finished with him, the vigilante grabbed the thug by his jacket with both hands and pulled, twisting his torso to his right and hauling the man up into the air. Letting go on his foe, he watched as the man flew over the railing, screaming as he fell to the floor below. Batman began moving once more, not waiting to hear when the man hit the ground. He knew the moment the screams ended when the thug had landed.

That was when he heard it. A gunshot rang out, just up ahead. He raced down the corridor until he reached a wide open door. Batman could clearly see the slumped form of Stromwell, sitting behind his desk, his head bent backwards as it lay on the back of his chair. There were some other sounds he could make out, ones that sounded familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time. However, the voice he heard next he definitely recognized.

"All set, Jenkins? Let's see the Bat handle this!"

That was when Cobblepot appeared in the doorway, holding his umbrella in both hands at his waist, pointing its end towards the vigilante. A chain of bullet casing hung from the umbrella and disappeared behind the frame of the door. A maniacal smirk was on the short man's face as he said, "Bye-bye, Batty."

That was the only hint Batman got before hell erupted from the end of the umbrella. A torrent of bullets blasted out, the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun echoing off the walls. The vigilante did the only thing he could do and changed course, ramming his shoulder into a nearby door and breaking it down barely in time to avoid the onslaught of bullets. Now he knew what those sounds were. Cobblepot had been loading up this new umbrella of his.

The gunfire came to an abrupt stop then, only to be replaced with Penguin's boisterous yell. "Come on out, Batman! We only just started! Wha-ha-ha-ha!"

Bearing his teeth, Batman pulled out another shuriken. Standing near the door frame, he leaned through the doorway long enough to send the projectile flying at Cobblepot. He yanked himself back into the room just as the short man began firing again. Faintly, he could pick out the sound of lead striking metal, frustrating the vigilante further. The weapon of Penguin's had shot his shuriken out of the air; no way could he make a frontal assault with Cobblepot wielding that kind of firepower.

Still, it wasn't like he was out of options.

Reaching into his belt, he pulled out another shuriken, pressing his thumb onto the body of the weapon. He held it there for a couple of seconds before he relaxed and moved his thumb, seeing a solid red light glowing from shuriken. Again, he leaned back into the hallway and sent it flying towards Cobblepot, retreating immediately and steeling himself for what was coming.

Again, Cobblepot fired his machine gun at the projectile. However, the moment one of the bullets made contact with it, an explosion erupted, shaking the building violently. Batman couldn't hear anything over the roar of the blast, but he knew the force would have thrown Cobblepot off his feet.

The moment the tremors stopped, the vigilante shot out of the room he hid in, racing through the thick cloud of smoke towards Stromwell's office. He exploded out of the cloud, catching sight of the Penguin crumpled into a heap, his umbrella lying on the floor further away. There was a goon over by the windows, but he didn't seem to be moving. Another thug was close to Cobblepot, and he was writhing in agony. Leaping off the floor, Batman flew towards the thug, landing with one foot next to the man, and the other foot swinging through the air and kicking him in the head. The man's head snapped to a side violently and his body went limp a moment later.

Turning his attention back to Cobblepot, he was on the smaller man instantly.

The Penguin was looking up at him, realizing just who was hunched over and letting out a gasp when Batman slammed his fist into his pudgy face. The man screamed out in pain from the blow as his head snapped to a side. Growling, Batman grabbed him by the collar of his coat and hauled him up into the air, his stubby legs dangling beneath him. Twisting his body around, the vigilante let out a roar as he threw Cobblepot out of the room, the little man flying through the air screaming until he crashed onto the formerly polished floor of the hallway.

Cape billowing behind him, Batman stormed towards the doorway, intent on beating the little menace within an inch of his life. He was running on pure anger now and there was nothing that would stop him from exacting justice on this murdering sociopath.

By then, Cobblepot had gotten onto his hands and knees and was looking down the hall towards him. "Now don't be hasty!" he cried out, waving one of his hands frantically at him. Batman completely ignored him as he strode through the doorway. However, it seemed the Penguin wasn't completely helpless.

Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a small, metallic grenade, which caused the vigilante to stop in his tracks. Cobblepot's voice dropped from its previously panicked tone to a lower, confident one. "Wouldn't want ya to get hurt after this lil' buggar rips this house a new one." Rising up onto his knees, he then shouted, "Catch!" before he swung his arm in an underhand motion, tossing the grenade into the air.

Batman stared as the handheld bomb fell through the air, bouncing off the floor when it landed once, then twice. Finally, the dark-clad man went into motion, dashing back into Stromwell's office and slamming the door shut behind him. Diving to his left, he landed roughly on the floor, his arms covering his head from the impending blast.

He felt it before he heard it. The floor shook before the explosion ripped the door and wall apart, splintered pieces of wood flying through the air as they were consumed by flames. The intense heat bathed the vigilante, causing him to cringe from it.

The next thing he knew, the floor beneath him gave out and Batman found himself falling through the air. He crashed onto the tile of the first floor a moment later, a grunt tearing out of his lips as the air in his lungs was forced out, leaving him breathless. For a moment, he was grateful as he was now out of the inferno from the blast. When large pieces of debris that used to be the second floor rained down on top of him, he began having second thoughts.

As wood and sheetrock pelted his back, Batman moved to cover his head again. Unfortunately, something heavy impacted the back of his head, causing stars to exploded before his eyes. He wasn't sure how long it lasted, but he was thankful when darkness consumed him.


	16. Jurassic Attack

The air was thick was dust. With a groan, Batman's consciousness slowly returned, his body aching as he began shifting. A tickling sensation worked its way up the back of his throat, forcing him to roughly cough a few times. The air was too thick and old, seemingly suffocating.

Feeling weight on top of him, the vigilante slowly began pushing himself up, feeling whatever was on top of him falling off. He could hear the clattering of wood against wood as pieces of it fell to the wayside. A burst of fresh air assaulted him as he reached his knees, the debris finally off of him. Greedily he sucked it in, his gasps the only sound he could hear.

With weary eyes, he began taking in his surroundings. He was in a ruined room, debris covering the floor and furniture in cluttered piles. What had previously been a ceiling was gone, revealing the upper level of the house. Bending his head to one side, the vigilante began rolling it in a circle, putting added strain when he reached a side until he heard and felt a pleasant pop.

Slowly, he began putting the pieces of what happened here. Penguin had attacked Stromwell's home. He had rushed in and subdued many of the gunmen on both sides until he reached Cobblepot, finding he had disposed of Stromwell. There had been a fight, a one-sided one, though that ended with Penguin throwing an incendiary grenade at him. That had led to the massive destruction around him.

The Batman growled. Most assuredly, the little menace had fled, leaving him back at square one to his whereabouts. This was unacceptable.

Hauling himself onto his feet, Batman began working his way through the pieces of wood and sheetrock, making his way out of the room. He needed to get out of here before the police arrived, though it was a bit of a wonder that they already hadn't. He had to have been unconscious for awhile; or maybe he was overestimating just how long he was out. Both were possible at this point.

Entering a clutter-free hallway, Batman strode through it, cape brushing against him. He soon reached the main lobby, seeing the front doors wide open, just as he had left them. There was a distinct lack of red-and-blue lights, so the police were definitely not here.

The vigilante came to an abrupt stop. Lying by another doorway was the limp form of one of Cobblepot's goons. Quickly, he closed the distance between them, kneeling down and pressing two fingers against the side of the man's neck. He nearly smiled when he felt the carotid pulse beating against his fingertips.

Looked as if the night wasn't quite over yet.

Grabbing the man's coat, he began dragging the body into the next room and then another hallway. He soon came to an open door, finding it to be a bathroom. Perfect. Pulling the man into the room, he finally released him, letting the goon rest on the tile floor.

Kneeling down, Batman then slammed a fist right into the thug's face. A pained groan tore through the man's lips as he began to shift around. A hand had shot up to his head, gripping the now-throbbing face. Batman just watched, waiting for the man to open his tightly-shut eyes. All he had to do was be patient and—

The man's eyes opened as some choice words were about to spill out of his mouth. Whatever they were, they died immediately as his eyes widened at the sight of the dark-clad vigilante. "Oh Christ!" he gasped.

Grabbing him by the collar, Batman leaned in closer. "Not quite."

The thug began thrashing on the floor as he began to scream. "Someone hel—!"

Another shot to the face stopped the man cold. "Listen up, scumbag," Batman growled. "I've got a few questions and you _will_ answer them. The sooner you tell me, the less pain you'll feel."

The thug shook his head violently. "I ain't telling you nothing!"

The corner of the vigilante's mouth twitched as he glanced towards the toilet. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

* * *

The Batman's parting of the Stromwell premises did not go unnoticed. In fact it was observed through the lens of high-power binoculars. The spy watched every move of the vigilante, who appeared unaware of the constant surveillance he was under, distance proving to be a very effective cover.

If you could not see your spectator, you did not know he was watching.

Cobblepot was proving to be a useful tool. His ambition was a useful leash and his audacity was inspiring to say the least. A huge shakeup of the Gotham underworld was the perfect distraction to keep the city's dark-clad crime fighter off his game, especially since it involved a foe of old.

And there was a weakness. The Batman was so focused on the fittingly-named Penguin that he was operating under tunnel vision. Another weapon in his arsenal against the vigilante. He was confident that it was only a matter of time until he made his own move. Other moves still needed to made first. If he acted too early, the element of surprise he had would be ruined and exposure had the risk of winning this game all the more difficult.

Not that he didn't like a challenge, but even he had some boundaries and anything outside his carefully crafted calculations was unacceptable.

He continued to watch his caped adversary make his escape, most likely to try and pick up Cobblepot's trail. Gloved hands gripping his binoculars tightly. In his head he made predictions of what actions and moves his masked prey would make, where a foot would stomp, what a hand would grab, the way the cowled head looked this way and that.

Every successful prediction was praised. Every unsuccessful one was given a promise to do better the next time. To know what your opponent would do before they did it was an important advantage and one he was determined to have.

That brought to mind a quote.

"_Beware the man who can strike from a distance_," a soft, whispered voice spoke from behind a layer of bandages.

Aesop, not his typical fare, but it was quite relevant here from the distance he was at as he observed his prey slip off into the night on Cobblepot's trail. Yes, that quote was relevant here…

What was that?

Elliot had only begun to lower his binoculars when movement had caught his eye. Peering through the long-range lenses, he tried to locate what he had seen. When nothing of note occurred, he figured that perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him for a moment.

But maybe not because he caught movement again. It was a dark shape that blended into the night. No cape or anything attached to it made it harder to spot. If he hadn't been looking, he wouldn't have caught the flicker of movement in the first place, or second as the case was.

However, this second flicker was accompanied by a third and fourth and they were heading in the same direction that he had last seen the Batman go. He had a better look at these shapes, humans clad in black to be more precise. The first thing that came to mind was ninja, but that didn't make any sense.

Was he really seeing ninjas in Gotham City of all places? Maybe a trick of his mind; his brain was trying to fill in empty voids of knowledge to make sense of it all. Regardless, these dark figures were apparently following his target. Even if they weren't and were just heading in the same direction, the bandage-faced man didn't believe in coincidence.

It appear that there might be another player.

Though he lowered his binoculars, his grip on them tightened immensely, uncaring of their worth. If there was someone else interested in the Batman, he could not allow their aims to be achieved so long if it interfered with his.

No, the bat-themed vigilante was his and his alone. No one else would have the honor of killing him. That was his and his alone.

It was obvious that some research needed to be done. More observation. More study. He had to make sure none of his plans were at risk with this development.

The night was young still. Perhaps he should keep an eye on Cobblepot?

For his safety, of course.

* * *

Cyrus Pickney had once been one of Gotham's favor sons. The city's skyline owed its unique signature to the man as he had designed building after building of it. Although skyscrapers would eventually begin changing it, all of their designs were modeled off of Pickney's unique gothic style.

Originally a struggling architect, he had attracted the eye of the current Wayne patriarch, Solomon Wayne, and soon the two had gone about rebuilding Gotham, changing it from a port city to the industrial powerhouse it would become. For awhile, it seemed as if the two men were unstoppable in their dream; however, Solomon had passed after contracting an undiagnosed case of West Nile Virus after an excursion into the nearby swamp lands and was followed soon after by Pickney.

To honor both men, two buildings had been commissioned in Pickney's style. The first was the Solomon Wayne Courthouse. The second was the colossal Pickney Museum. It was this second building Batman found himself in front of, staring it down from the rooftop of a building across the street.

Penguin's thug had given into his interrogation, not that that had been a surprise. Between sputterings of fear and toilet water, the goon managed to spit out "Pickney...cough...Museum." The museum was an unexpected locale, but then it did provide Cobblepot with a ready-made fortress should he choose to barricade all entrances and exits. From the dark-clad man's vantage point, the Penguin hadn't wasted any time doing so. The windows were braced with what appeared to be steel coverings, preventing him from simply breaking through the glass. It was unknown what additional enhancements had been made to the doors and it would be unwise to attempt to enter the building without knowing. Then there was the roof, where sentries were patrolling. Those he could deal with.

He had been watching them ever since he arrived, seeking out a pattern amongst the five patrolling guards. It wasn't a bad idea to have guards up there, but the museum was very large, and thus had a very large roof that needed patrolling. Stretched too thin, each man was all by himself.

And one of them was approaching the front of the building.

Instantly, Batman leapt off his perch, letting gravity drop him down its face. Wind whipping at his face, he mentally counted down each second, each one bringing him closer to the approaching ground, each one drawing the sentry closer to the front of the museum.

Whipping out his grapple, he fired it at the museum, the line going taunt once it made contact with the stone surface. The next second he was reeling himself in, quickly approaching the building. His momentum shot him over the edge of the building, right in front of surprised guard. Hands out, he grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, the other cupping his mouth shut. The man was lifted off the roof by the force and speed of the vigilante, the two flying over several feet before coming back down. They landed, the Batman kneeling on his feet and slamming the back of the thug's head against the roof, knocking him out cold.

The sound of skull hitting stone was loud, gaining the attention of the other guards. Faintly, Batman could hear shouts of surprise. Undoubtedly they'd be on their way here. Reaching to this belt, he pulled out two shuriken, one in each hand. He rose to his full height, waiting and listening as the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. There were two stone domes up head, one to the left and right. Any moment now two guards would be appearing around them. It was just a matter of figuring which one would show up first.

Finally, he threw the shuriken in his right hand, watching as it arced through the air towards the right dome. A moment later, a guard can rushing out from behind it, just in time for the shuriken to collide with the side of his head and render him unconscious.

Pushing off against the roof, Batman raced towards the left dome, hearing the next sentry's footsteps skidding to a stop as he shouted, "What the hell?!" He would be peeking around the dome any second now. Leaping up into the air as he drew near, he leaned back and extended a foot out, keeping the other leg bent at the knee and back. And just as he predicted, the thug peaked around the corner and was met with his boot ramming into his face.

And another one was down. Two more left to go. Hearing their approaching footsteps, Batman moved into the shadow of the dome, waiting as the sentries appeared, coming to a stop when they saw their fallen comrades. Neither attempted to scan the area, the fools.

Yet, this provided him an opportunity to try something new. Readjusting his grip on his remaining shuriken, his thumb began tapping against the center of the projectile. A blue light appeared a moment later, informing him his programming had been accepted. Ready, he drew the shuriken back and then threw it, the bat-shaped projectile whizzing by the two men harmlessly behind them, just as he intended. Neither seemed to hear it fly by, though it was of little consequence now. The shuriken seemed to stop in midair further down the roof, reversing it as it came spinning back, only this time colliding with the side of one of the guard's head, knocking him down as the projectile continued on its course back to the vigilante.

As both guards cried out, one from pain, the other from surprise, Batman leapt forward, reaching out to catch his returning shuriken. He felt it come into contacted with his gloved hand, his fingers squeezing together to secure it to his palm. Readjusting his grip on it, he brought his arm back across his chest, only to swinging it again, throwing the shuriken at the remaining sentry. Like the others, this one caught him in the temple and rendered him useless a moment later.

First obstacle was down, time for the next one. Leaving the scene, he went in search of the ventilation system, finding the large metal behemoth towards the northeast corner. Locating one of the vents, he ripped off the grating and tossed it aside, entering the vent and beginning the long trek through them.

With every move he made, the sounds of his hands and knees pressing against the floor of the vent echoed throughout the narrow tunnel. He ignored it as he journeyed forth, looking for an opening large enough for him to use. There were intersecting shafts here and there and at times he was forced to make turns.

And then he found it. There was a grate to his left that was large enough for him to crawl through. Reaching it, he peaked through the metal bars, finding an unoccupied room. Maneuvering his body in the cramped space, the vigilante soon had his back pressed up against the ventilation shaft, his feet against the grate. Applying pressure, he could hear a low groaning from the metal, screws, and bolts as they resisted his force. It didn't last much longer before the grate popped off, falling to the floor and clattering on it loudly.

Quickly, he made his way through the opening, dropping to the floor and landing on it, bending down to crouch. The room he was in was used for some sort of storage, cardboard boxes stacked onto each other about waist-high. There was no telling if anyone had heard his entrance, but he would be ready if they appeared. Seconds ticked by as he waited and eventually he came to the assumption that no one would come. That didn't mean he would lower his guard though.

Raising a hand to his right gauntlet, he hit a couple of buttons, then watched as his world went blue. Yet another upgrade to his arsenal, he had computerized the lens in his cowl, allowing him to have access to different sorts of visual readouts. In this case, heat vision. The black and blue of the room around him showed no signs of body heat, so he was truly alone. Slowly, he turned his head from right to left, searching for any heat signatures. To his surprise, he only found one large reading off to his left. That reading was either a large group of people in one place, or the source of high thermal output. He much prefered the first option over the second; were it the latter, that meant the walls were insulated and hid smaller readings, which in turn left him in the dark of any patrolling guards.

Still, it would be foolish of Cobblepot not to have patrols inside his own fortress; the vigilante would have to stay on guard. Deactivating the heat vision, Batman went to the door and quietly opened it, finding himself in a hallway. Turning to his left, he stealthily crept down the corridor, making the appropriate turns as was necessary until he reached an end. The hall came to a stop with only a wooden door blocking his advancement. Again, he silently opened the door and passed through the doorway.

It was here he found himself in a large room. He was on the second floor, which ran along the wall of the room, various exhibits being displayed. About halfway through the room was a bridge that stretched out from one side to the other. There were two staircases, one to his left and right that descended to the first floor, meeting about halfway with each other before diverting into a much larger staircase and finishing the descent down. He couldn't see much of the first floor, but he could make out a large model of a Tyrannosaurus Rex beneath the bridge.

Faintly, the vigilante remembered a trip to this very museum. His parents had brought him here for the unveiling of this model, only to be scared out of his wits when it began moving. Hell, everyone had been terrified. It wasn't until later when the curator explained it was merely a newly designed automatronic that people calmed down. It had been quite a draw to the museum for some time after that; in fact it was only a few years ago that they had decommissioned it. Now it was just a life sized model of the ferocious dinosaur.

Yet, that was not what brought him here. As it turned out, his first scenario of a large group of people here was true. Cobblepot had gathered his gang into the room and was currently berating them between the staircase and the T-Rex. Crouching, Batman took cover behind the stone railing that separated the stairs from the floor level.

"You sorry sods! Who the hell gave you the order to leave Stromwell's?! Eh?! When I tell you to shoot the place up, you shoot the fuckin' place up! Not lie around in puddles o' piss and blood!"

"Hey, you didn't say anything about the Bat showing up!" one of the goons cried out. "Did you even see what he did?"

Penguin turned his sights on the goon. "Are you tellin' me that some freak job in a bat costume is so terrifyin' that you ain't able to do your freakin' job?" he asked in a deceptively calm voice.

"N-no, Mr. Cobblepot, Sir," the man stuttered back. "I just mean that when we went in with guns, he came with cannons."

"Oh, so those lovely bazookas and grenades I gave all o' you blokes were perfectly useless; is that what you're tellin' me?"

Subtly, the men around the thug put their distance between him and them. The man looked around helplessly before returning his sights to Cobblepot. "N-no, that's not what I—"

Before he could finish, Cobblepot pulled out a handgun, pointed it right at the thug's head, and fired. A loud bang sounded off as the man's head jerked back and his body dropped to the floor. "Does anyone else think the same way this idiot did?!" the Penguin shouted, looking to the rest of his men. None of them spoke up, choosing to look straight ahead and not meet the shorter man's eyes. "That's what I thought."

Batman clinched his teeth tightly as he continued to watch. Now was not the time to go crashing this meeting. He had a chance to learn more about the Penguin's organization and he was going to take advantage of it. Slowly, he began looking from man to man, searching for any identifying markings. Of course, the back of their heads weren't the best place to look for such things, but you never knew.

Soon though, his eyes looked onto the sight of a dark-haired woman leaning next to a wall. She was dressed smartly in a red skirt and jacket and white blouse. She was staring intently at Cobblepot, the only person here that would. Batman made sure to get a good look at her so that the camera in his lens captured her. If need be, he'd do a background check on her back at the cave.

"Someone clean that up," Cobblepot continued as he holstered his gun back in his jacket. Two men immediately grabbed the corpse by his shoulders and arms and began dragging him to some place out of Batman's sights. "Now then, we've got much to discuss. Despite the Bat's appearance, Stromwell's out o' the picture. That just leaves the chinks in Chinatown. O' course, we're a little low on manpower, so we need to begin recruitin' some new blood. Candice?"

The woman perked up at that. "Yes, Mr. Cobblepot?"

"Tell me you've got good news on those latest shipments."

An amused smile appeared on Candice's face. "They'll be here by tomorrow night, right on schedule."

"That's what I like to hear, girlie." Turning his attention back to the men, he added, "Now why can't you gents be more like Candice?"

Batman kept himself still. This must be how Cobblepot had been getting his weapons. He just needed to know where the dropoff point was and that would be one less shipment in the bloody hands of murderers.

"So listen up! I want you blokes to go round up some more boys," Penguin ordered, pointing at a group of men. "The rest o' ya will be at the docks to pick up our new toys."

"Which one?" one of them asked.

Candice was the one to answer that. "It'll be 71 this time."

_This time_. So Penguin had his supplies sent to different places. It was smart, but it left Batman with more work to do and ground to cover. However, he would make sure Cobblepot _never_ got his greedily hands on this shipment. The vigilante had heard enough and it was time to put the short man down again.

Pulling out a smoke pellet, Batman tossed it over the railing and towards the large group, waiting for it to hit the floor. A moment later, a cloud of smoke exploded from the group's feet, causing them all to cry out in surprise.

Instantly, Batman was up, a foot on the stone railing and using it to push off, launching himself into the air. He went flying down into the cloud, landing on the shoulders of one of the coughing men, crushing him onto the floor. Crouched down, Batman bent his arms at the elbow and held them at shoulder height. Shooting up, the backs of his elbows collided with the chins of two other thugs, snapping their heads back and knocking them off their feet.

Serging forward, Batman ran into another gasping goon and launched a flurry of punches at him, beating him down to the floor. Many more men met the same fate as the vigilante used his smoke cover to dash to each one and beat them senseless. By the time the smoke faded, several men were lying on the floor in various states of unconsciousness or pain.

"You again?!" Cobblepot roared. Pointing his finger at the dark-clad man, he ordered, "Get 'em you stupid wankers!"

Three men appeared in his sights, each keeping their distance for now. Batman was aware of Penguin hobbling towards the other side of the room, disappearing behind the T-Rex's leg. That was alright, three thugs wouldn't take too long. Reaching to his belt, the corner of his mouth twitched when he realized he only had two shuriken left. That...complicated things.

He would have to make do, especially when the three men pulled out guns. His cape shielded his body from their sight, hiding the shuriken he grasped in each hand. His next move had to be executed perfectly if he was going to avoid being shot. There was one man to his left, two to the right and fortunately they were standing relatively close. He could work with that.

As the men raised their guns and aimed them at him, Batman turned to his right, throwing off his cape with his right arm before throwing the shuriken he held. He didn't pause as it arced through the air, instead turning to his left, cape flowing all over his body as he threw the other projectile. By the time he turned his head back, his bat-shaped shuriken struck one of the men on the hand, knocking the gun out of his hand as he cried out in pain. The force of the shuriken kept it flying though, and it struck the second man's hand a second later. To his left, he heard his projectile hit the thug there, on the temple as he had aimed it, which was followed by the man's collapse to the floor.

Dashing to the remaining two, Batman leapt off the floor, clasping his hands cover his head, cape billowing behind him. He watched with a small sense of satisfaction as the man looked up at him and began screaming with fright. The scream ended soon after as the vigilante swung his clasped hand down, jackhammering the man on the face and knocking him down to the ground.

Not taking a moment to rest, he then dove to his left, extending his left elbow out and rammed it into the side of the last man's head. As the man fell, Batman rained several more punches down on him, ensuring he wouldn't be getting back up any time soon. Raising back to his full height, he took a cursory look around and was satisfied to find no more men were standing. He couldn't see where the woman was though, but all that meant was that she had fled sometime during the fight. He would deal with her later.

Right now, he had a little fat bird to apprehend.

Striding the way Cobblepot ran off to, he quickly found him standing on the other side of a doorway, an entrance into another display room. Penguin seemed to sense him as he turned around. Picking up his pace, the vigilante raced towards the short man, arms pumping up and down at his sides. The distance disappeared between the two of them with each step he took.

Then out of nowhere, a metal gate descended from the roof, rolling down tracks on either side of the doorway. With a heavy thud, it hit the floor, rattling for a couple of moments. Shooting his hands up, the Batman ran right into the gate, his arms providing enough leverage to keep him slamming face first into it.

"Oy, ain't that a shame," Cobblepot taunted. "Ya almost had me."

Batman growled. "This isn't over, Cobblepot."

"Now that's where you and I disagree." Here, the short man reached over to a crate where a laptop sat. Hitting a button, he then returned his attention to the vigilante and said, "Allow me to introduce you to me new pet."

He heard it before he saw it, the sound of gears turnings and pistons pumping. Turning his head around, his eyes widened as the T-Rex began to move, twisting its hulking body around as its feet raised off its stand. Paneling was torn off the stand, sticking to the bottom of its clawed feet. It let out an earthshaking roar, its mouth gaping wide as it revealed several very large, very sharp-looking teeth.

"You chaps get along now," Cobblepot spoke from behind him. Retreating footsteps told him the short man was making his escape, though there wasn't much he could do to stop it. Instead, all he could do was watch as the T-Rex stomp towards him with thunderous steps. Snarling, the automatronic let out an earpiercing roar before it lunged down with its open mouth.

Batman reacted immediately. Dashing forward, he shot in between the dinosaur's legs, the T-Rex's mouth clamping shut right where he had been standing. Once he reached the base of the tail, the vigilante took note of two doorways, one to the left and one to the right. However, he wasn't able to make a choice when the T-Rex began turning around, its right leg raising up and body turning. The moment he realized the foot was coming down right where he was, he dove to his right, arms stretched out to catching himself on the floor. As the dinosaur's foot slammed into the floor, Batman's hands touched the ground and held steady. Using his momentum, he went into a roll until his feet were back under him. Pushing off, he raced through the doorway, just in time as the T-Rex lunged at him again, this time its large snout crashed into the entrance.

Spinning around, Batman felt his back slam into the wall behind him, not that he cared. He was more focused on the door frame as it began to splinter and break from the dinosaur trying to force its way through it. Breathing hard, the vigilante used those precious moments to collect himself and began formulating a plan to get around this latest obstacle.

However, the dinosaur seemed to give up getting at him then, pulling its snout back. Through the doorway, Batman watched as it seemed to step drunkenly around, the floor shaking from each footstep. Batman soon learned what the mechanical nightmare was doing though, when it spun in a circle and a wall further down to his right shattered. Looking, he saw the dinosaur's tail tearing the wall down when they collided, stone and concrete crumbling before the tail.

_Come on!_ he snarled in his head as the massive tail closed in on him. A glance to his left told him there was no where to run from it, so that left him with only one option. Pushing off the floor, he ran at the tail before leaping at it at the last second. Arms extended, he felt the palm of his hands roughly impact the appendage. With a grunt, he swung his legs up into the air and then over, allowing him to flip over the tail and come to a landing behind it.

Turning around, he soon realized he wasn't out of the woods just yet. Though the dinosaur had finished its spin, the destroyed wall it left in its wake was large enough for its head to get in and make a snack out of him. Almost frantic, he began looking for someway out of this. There just had to be something he could do, other than mindlessly dodge every move this monster made. Maybe if he got to the upper floor he could do some…

Wait, what was that?

Towards the roof, behind the dino, there was a small platform jutting out of the wall. Too high for the monster to get at him. Quickly, he pulled out his grapple and returned his attention back to the T-Rex. It was just in time too as it came in to strike, its gaping mouth surging towards him.

Leaping to his left, Batman fired his grapple at the platform, hearing it make contact and feeling the line go taunt. Hitting the retract button, he was pulled right off the floor, zooming through the air as the T-Rex pulled its head back and turned to snarl at his retreating form. In no time at all, he reached the platform, swinging his body around until he landed right on it.

Below him, the dino turned around and let out a deafening roar. Though, just because he was up here didn't mean he was safe yet. He needed to knock out this monster while he had a chance, even though there was nothing in his utility belt that had enough power to do so. Glancing over to the gate where he had last scene Cobblepot, the laptop behind it was the only thing he could think of that could deactivate it.

No, no wait; he could deactivate it! Cobblepot had turned the monster on using a remote device, which meant there was some frequency being broadcast. Reaching to a side pocket on his belt, he pulled out a small, hand-held computer and activated it. Once the screen was on, his fingers began dancing on its touchscreen surface, seeking out the program he wanted. Soon, an icon with the word SEARCHING appeared on the screen.

Looking back to the dino, he was soon surprised to find out that it had been busy as well. Though it tried in vain to get at him, it was now considering other options. Right now it had its head close to the ground, its tail sticking up into the air. It seemed to be picking up something in its mouth before it suddenly twisted around and sent a large piece of debris flying into the air and right at him.

Cursing, Batman leapt off his perch, narrowly avoiding as the rubble slammed into it, sending piece of stone flying everywhere. Roughly, the vigilante landed on the floor below, losing his breath in the process. Gasping, he looked to the small computer in his hand, finding the words he was hoping to see: INITIATE JAMMING PROTOCOL?

Immediately, he activated it, seeing JAMMING SIGNAL appear on the screen. Again, he turned his attention back to the T-Rex, finding its head level with the floor. Instinctively, Batman began to scramble away from it, a sense of dread welling up in him, intensifying when the monster opened its mouth and lunged for him.

And then, it came to an abrupt halt, mouth mere feet from him. Staring at it, Batman held his breath before it occurred to him to check his computer. Glancing to it, he found SIGNAL JAMMED on its screen and let a sigh of relief.

Relaxing somewhat, he rested his body on the floor, staring languidly up at the room. "What a night," he breathed out warily.

* * *

The call had come in at 10:34 p.m. They were there at 10:56 p.m.

Yeah, they hurried over. Took longer than necessary because they were getting reports of gunfire in another part of town, somewhere Bullock suspected was close to Stromwell's place. He and the rook had been on their way when the other call came in. A poor housekeeper who was, ahem, working overtime if you know what he meant, and found her boss in a not very living state of being.

It was a tossup between getting some action and going over to some rich guy's pad. The choice was taken away from him when it turned out they were closer to the rich guy's place than Stromwell's. Despite all the gang warfare crap going on, they still had to do their usual shit, which meant they needed to get to this other crime scene as soon as possible.

So Bullock answered the call and at 10:56 he was doing his best to ignore the rich-looking hallway he was in as he made his way to the rich guy's place. He also did his best to ignore how the suite he was stepping foot into was at least twice as big as his place and that was just the first room. Lots of fancy stuff in this place. Expensive too, he bet. Already he had a couple motives in his head, but first he needed to see the corpse.

"Keep your eyes peeled, Rook," he told Montoya, his hands crammed into the pockets of his coat. "Be careful where you step too."

Was that a grunt? Wow, so women could grunt too. Who knew?

Turning to one of the officers on the scene, the sergeant whipped out his badge and asked, "So where's the poor sap?"

"Bedroom, Sir," came the immediate answer. Yeah, professionalism from one of Gotham's Finest. Only when a rich guy was dead was anything taken seriously around here.

Well, the bedroom was where the crime scene was and the bedroom was where he would be...oh wow. Though he didn't let it show, he was a bit surprised at what he found.

The victim was on a bed that was three times the size of his own at home, restrained to it in a spread eagle position. A close look at the nearest ankle revealed that the rope was cutting into the skin. Looked a bit raw as if the guy had been struggling. However, the center of attention here was the fact that the guy was cut open. The large man had never known that skin could be peeled back like that.

Naturally, there was a lot of blood. Stained practically everything on the bed, including the body. A look at the victim's face was a bit unnerving. Open eyes stared towards one of the walls, the mouth wide open as if in the middle of a scream...or a choke, and were those wrinkles? From the looks of him, he was either in his late fifties, early sixties, maybe.

There something missing here, Bullock couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was right in front of him, on the tip of his tongue, but not quite revealing itself to him. He found it quite frustrating.

Bullock then glanced over at Montoya. She was trying to put up a strong front, what with the way she was ramrod straight and refusing to look away from the body, but she was also looking a little green. He was too, but only a bit. He wasn't about to lose his lunch or whatever it was he had last crammed down his mouth, but there was still the queasiness.

Just when you think you had seen everything, the scumbags of America had to prove you wrong.

"So who is he?" he asked aloud.

"Quentin Spacey. He owns the place," an officer answered him, holding up the guy's wallet where his identification was. "We checked to be sure."

"Okay, and any clues? You know, something to tell us who the hell did this?" Without taking his hands out of his pockets, he took a step closer to the vic. Half the face was pressed against the pillow the head was laying on and yes there was blood there too.

"Nothing yet. No signs of forced entry," was his reply.

"I heard there was a housekeeper. Anything on her?"

"We have her in the dining room, getting a statement."

"Suspicious?"

"Not yet. She's the one who found the body."

"See if you can't find anything on her," he stated as he took a hand out of his pocket, a pen in hand. Pressing an end against the vic's forehead, he pushed until the head began to turn away from the pillow.

Okay. So there was something else. Good amount of the guy's face was gone as well, leaving only the muscle beneath it. He let the head roll back into place.

"So we got a schmuck that's been cut open, has a part of his face gone, and a housekeeper who we know nothing about yet," he summed up. "Anything else I don't know about yet?"

"His insides," the Rook spoke up, her voice soft yet sounding forced.

"His insides?" he repeated, looking at Montoya.

"They're missing," the woman gestured to their victim's torso. Taking another good look, Bullock began to notice that the inside of the guy's body was indeed looking a little emptier. So he was gutless now? Heh. Okay, jokes aside.

"So where are they? They don't look like they're where they're supposed to be," the sergeant demanded. Taking a quick look around, he added, "See if you can't find anything; blood, fingerprints, I don't care, so long as it can tell me what the sicko who did this did with them."

Though obvious, he did see a trail of blood heading toward another room. Probably a bathroom—definitely a bathroom. Montoya had followed the trail and flicked the light switch. Yeah, he doubted that you'd have tile like that anywhere else.

"Looks like they might have cleaned up in here," the Rook reported. "There's blood all over in here, particularly around the sink."

He nodded. "Any guts?"

"No, nothing. Maybe they wrapped it up so that it wouldn't, uh, drip over everything.

"Smart thinking, Rook." Bullock paused. "What do you mean by they?"

"The perpetrator could have been a woman," the Rook replied, peeking out of the bathroom to look him in the eye. "The person who found our victim was the housekeeper, remember? What's a housekeeper doing in a place like this so late?"

"How do you know she don't live here?" Bullock retorted, though he wanted to see what Montoya could come up with.

"Why would she live here? This isn't an estate."

Point, but not enough if she didn't have anything to back it up. Looking back at the other officer, the large man ordered, "Find out if our housekeeper does more than work here. Find out if maybe our horny friend might have been hitched and pissed off the missus. Hey Rook, see if you can't find anything else—"

A loud shriek interrupted him and the detective was pulling out his gun, aiming it towards the doorway. Okay, bloodcurdling shriek he was not expecting. Cautiously he approached the doorway, Montoya and the other officer watching his six.

Peeking out into the living area, he didn't see anything that could have caused such a scream. At the far side of the room, he noticed that a light had been turned on that hadn't been on earlier.

The smoke alarm triggered, giving him another start, but he kept cool. Was someone trying to burn the place down or something?

In his head, the recent facts came together to form a...an idea or whatever you called it. Loud shriek plus unseen room plus smoke alarm equals something going on in the kitchen. Okay, odd but still.

Keeping his gun out and trusting that the two behind him wouldn't let him get shot or anything, Bullock made his way to the other side of the apartment, his hunch proving right when he found the kitchen. There was an officer he hadn't seen yet who looked like he was about to throw up and a Hispanic woman who was holding a rosary and going through a hundred Hail Marys a minute.

There was quite a bit of smoke here and Bullock pulled his hat off, waving it in front of himself to fan some of it away. The source of the smoke, as it turned out, was coming from an opened oven and—oh there they were.

They found the missing guts.

"Okay, that's just sick," he said as he holstered his firearm and placed his large hands on the Hispanic woman's shoulders, intending to lead her out of here. She did _not_ need to see that. Hell, _nobody_ needed to see that.

Who tries to cook another person's guts? Other than a cannibal, of course. Was the perp intending to come back or something? The shrill beeps of the smoke alarm invaded his hearing once again and another thought occurred to him.

What if they had been done to attract their attention? The smell of burning intestines was going to catch someone's attention, or the smoke coming out of the over would have eventually reached the smoke alarm. Did that mean that the killer wanted the body found? Why?

Bullock's eyes hardened, even as he gently maneuvered the housekeeper out of the kitchen. Whoever was responsible for this had a lot to answer for.

* * *

A couple quick notes. I'm modeling the Pickney Museum after the one so elaborately detailed in the Arkham City game. In fact, the roof and the room where the Penguin was berating his men are exactly from the game, though I did exchange the Woolly Mammoth with the T-Rex. There's a reason for that, which will be explained shortly lol.


	17. Employment

He was starting to get used to this. An anonymous call comes in and sure enough something big goes down that the GCPD is able to bust. In this case, a shipment of some military-grade weaponry was seized. He almost shuddered at the thought of that kind of firepower being on the city streets.

Apparently, a lot of other people thought the same. The Dock 71 bust had given Gordon some positive press that he was sorely needing. Vale's picture and the mysterious creature that had attacked Wayne Enterprises were bad all on their own and brought their own headaches along. For a moment, he thought that the IA investigation into him would have to lighten up a bit, or at the very least take off some of its pressure.

But if you knew Forbes, you knew that that wasn't going to be happening.

"_It's quite a bit of luck you got,_" Forbes had commented after the commissioner had returned from the Gotham Pier. "_Maybe a bit more than can be coincidence_."

Yes, yes, it was that spiel. Of all the people who would be skeptical of this, it would have to be the IA's bulldog. Sometimes he wondered is this man had any optimism in him. Then again, maybe Forbes generally didn't like him. That would explain a lot of the hostility. It was a shame that Gordon had never been a winner of any popularity contest before. He'd had known when he had accepted this job that he wasn't anybody's favorite person at the time, but you would think…

Never mind. What did he care if one officer from Internal Affairs didn't like him? He wasn't here to be liked. He was here to do a job to the best of his abilities regardless if only a small fraction of the men under him liked his taking over of the department.

Still, Gordon felt quite confident with the bust that he could push aside any negativity that Forbes had a talent for drawing out of him. He was going to ride this high for as long as he could.

"_I hope you're not getting too comfy behind that desk, Gordo. In fact, if I were you, I'd be calling up the nearest U-haul._"

If that wasn't ominous.

"_I got you where I want you, Commissioner. I found something, something dirty if you know what I mean. Something so filthy that no one would question your imminent dismissal_."

He had demanded what it was the IA agent had found, but like the little shit he was, he refused to tell him. It was to be surprise; everybody would find out about it in the public forum. Everything that Gordon had fought for over the past year or so would be tainted, his legacy tarnished, and all that crap that the commissioner could really care less about, but Forbes seemed to think was important.

Yes, he was worried that his effort to clean up the department would be in vain—that he couldn't deny. With his "disgrace," how easy would it be for the men and women behind the badge returning to the way things used to be? How easy would it be for the people he had managed to fire over their union's objection to get their old jobs back and return to business-as-usual? What would happen to his family and himself? Would they be made examples of by the last remaining organized crime outfits left?

Loman he could only hope would care less, but he wouldn't put anything past Cobblepot. How that man had gotten out in the first place, he was still trying to wrap his head around it. You would think that going after the child of a cop would ensure that bastard would never breathe free air again.

It made Gordon wonder what kind of technicality some hawk-eyed lawyer must have found to get him out. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't heard about any lawyers involved in Cobblepot's release.

Other than using it as a reference in future cases, the knowledge was moot. All that mattered was that the Penguin was out and causing all sorts of chaos as he made his bid for control over Gotham's underworld. That in turn would lead to control over Gotham itself.

And all that was on top of Forbes, who was the biggest headache of all. That brought him full circle to what he had been thinking about. What had Forbes found? What little thing had he found was going to be taken out of context or proportion and used to end his time at GCPD? Those were the only possibilities he could think of that the IA agent would find. Gordon had always made sure he stayed clean considering all the filth he worked with over the years. It wasn't to make himself look better by any means—though having a clean rep was good in court when he was eventually brought in to testify, the few times he had at least—it just helped him go to sleep at night.

He didn't hear anyone knock at his door, but he certainly heard it open. Lifting his head up from where it had been propped against his hand, elbow pressed onto his desk, the commissioner looked over his glasses at Essen, who came with an offering of coffee. He gestured with his head for her to place the styrofoam cup on his desk, all the while recalling what it was he had her doing.

She was looking into Elliot Pharmaceuticals, wasn't she? Didn't know how that came to him so quickly. With all that was going on, the drug company was the last thing on his mind.

"You don't look anywhere near excited," Essen commented. "I would think you would be after what went down at the pier."

"Forbes has a talent to suck the excitement out of anything," he replied. The lieutenant "mmmed" and nodded, already understanding.

"Judging by the wrinkles, I would have to say he did a lot of sucking."

Gordon snorted, unable to allow a bit of humor out. "Wrinkles. I really must be getting old."

"You're not that old. Maybe a few gray hairs here and there." The detective took a sip from her own cup of steaming coffee.

"That better be some damn impressive detective skills that told you that." He reached over and picked up the cup brought for him and took a sip. Nice and bitter, close to how he was feeling right about now. "So tell me, what's going on with you? Elliot Pharma-whatever still giving you problems?"

"The only people who try hard to be so secretive are drug dealers," Essen answered him. "The Elliot board kept stonewalling me. It would be obvious to a blind man that they're hiding something. What, I have not been able to find out yet. Any connection to that creature that attacked Wayne Enterprises I haven't found yet. I wouldn't be surprised if the very thing they're hiding is that connection."

"Do you have enough to get a warrant?"

"Not yet. If they're smart, they're using this time to make sure their tracks are covered. Meanwhile, I need to convince a judge that that group of men and women aren't being honest." Essen blew air through her lips.

The commissioner grunted, not able to say anything else about that. What could he say? Rich men, and women he mentally added, were always the most delicate of suspects. One wrong move, one wrong word, and they were demanding their lawyers or clamming up.

"However, something interesting has come up."

Hmm? Interesting? Whatever did she mean by that? His expressed to her to continue.

"Bullock and Montoya are currently investigating the death of an Elliot board member, Quentin Spacey. The details are...gruesome to say the least. But I don't think this death is a coincidence."

"You think it might have something to do with the Wayne attack?" Gordon guessed.

"We're in the middle of investigating them. Why have this man die during a critical period of time? Who would have the motive to kill him and in such a way?"

"I would assume the wife, if there is one."

"There is and her alibi is ironclad. Bullock's still looking into her, but unless an insurance payout is the motivation, I don't think she's the one responsible."

"Intuition?"

"Why kill a man for a policy that will run out eventually when you can mooch off him for the rest of his or your life? From what Bullock's...explained to me, there have been no legal proceedings indicating a future divorce. Plus the extent of the mutilation, even a woman scorned has her limits."

"Are you sure about that?" He had to ask about that last part. Call it curiosity if you wanted.

"As the only representative of the female population in this room, yes, I am sure about that." Apparently Essen had picked up on that. Went to show that she wasn't a detective for nothing.

"So it would have been better for her had he stayed alive. So who else are you considering if not the obvious suspect?" He leaned back in his chair, focusing his eyes on the lieutenant.

"I would look into Elliot Pharmaceuticals and not just because I am involve with the Wayne attack. A motive for this man's murder could have been business-related and not personal."

"What about a drifter? Home burglary gone bad?"

"How does a drifter get into one of Gotham's high rises without anyone seeing him?"

A good point, but that still left other potential options. "Death threat? Loan sharks?"

"All reports show that Spenser wasn't acting out of the ordinary. He wasn't expecting some collector to come knocking with a knife. The same goes for some random act of violence. That would happen to someone of the victim's status out on the streets, not in the comforts of his home. " Essen paused to take a sip of her coffee. "So that leaves a personal attack. Minus the wife and that leaves his work."

"Hmm." It was plausible. "Mention it to Bullock. See if he can't find anything. Perhaps applying pressure from different angles might make them more willing to cooperate." Another thought occurred to him. "Isn't Elliot Pharmaceuticals like Wayne Enterprises? Their CEO has the last name of Elliot or something?"

"Thomas Elliot? I could look into him." Essen nodded. "I think he no longer retains the position, though. I admit, I don't pay that much attention to the business world."

"Neither do I, but since you've mentioned that, it gives the man motive doesn't it?" Yes, those rich types were much more sensitive to job losses, particularly when it happened to them.

"I'll get on that." Gordon could see a glint of determination in her eyes that made his lips want to twitch upwards if only for the fact that it made him recall a time when he had such a glint in his own.

Essen was a woman with something to prove. He had gotten that much from her when she had first called his attention to her. What she was trying to prove he did not know right now. However, if it was going to get some results for the Wayne Enterprises case, then he was not going to do anything to get in the way.

Sometimes a little pressure got results. Other times it was detrimental, like what Forbes was doing to him. The improved mood he had unexpectedly found himself in, thanks mostly to Essen, was soured at the thought of the IA agent. That reminded him, what exactly had Forbes found that would put a man like that in a good mood?

"Commissioner? Is something wrong?" The lieutenant's voice removed him from those bleak thoughts and he blinked at the fact that he had zoned out for a second. Now was not the time to be doing that.

"Nothing that you can help with unless you know how to make a certain internal affairs investigation go away."

"Not at the moment, Commissioner. I suppose I'll have to settle with grown-up trust fund children instead."

That sounded much better than what he was going through. Essen headed off, leaving Gordon alone with the cup of coffee the lieutenant had offered. Taking a sip, he was reminded that the coffee had some heat to it still. If only there was a way to have it make its way to Forbes' face. That's the only way this cup of Joe could get any better.

* * *

_THE ELLIOT COVER-UP_

_By Vicki Vale_

Bruce read the article, leaning back in his chair as he did so. Vale had done some decent work here. Providing a back story to the joint effort between his and Tommy's companies, Elliot Pharmaceuticals suddenly distancing itself from Wayne Enterprises right after the Hagan Incident, and finally the abrupt silence from the Elliot board was all detailed in a front page story. It wasn't the headline breaker that the reporter had promised, but it was there to behold.

Glancing up from the paper, Bruce saw an eager Vicki Vale sitting on the other side of his desk, looking for all the world like an eager puppy waiting to be rewarded for her success. Gone was the white dress from their dinner and in its place was a tasteful dark pantsuit. Returning to the newspaper, he read a couple more paragraphs before looking up back at the redhead.

"It certainly seems like you covered everything," he finally said as he rested the paper on his desk.

"Don't forget, the internet is blowing up with the story," Vale added. "Before the end of the day, your company will be washed clean of this entire thing."

He knew what she was looking for, he could see it in her eyes. She wanted her next story, most preferably something big happening at Wayne Enterprises. Or maybe she just wanted another date, that was always possible. Regardless, he had gotten everything he had wanted out of the reporter and it was time for them to part ways.

"On behalf of Wayne Enterprise, I thank you for the tremendous work you've done," Bruce congratulated her.

"And your behalf?"

Oh, so she was more interested in him. Part of him wanted to blow her off, just so she knew just where "they" standed. Though, Lucius would have quite a few words for him when Vale ultimately sought revenge and dug up all sorts of dirt on the company. That was a headache he could live without. It would be best to keep her in a corner until he needed her again.

"Let's just say I owe you one."

"Oh, believe me, Mr. Wayne, you owe me a few more than just one."

"Is that a fact?"

Her hands wrapped around the ends of the armrests on her chair. "It is." She then pushed herself up and began to slowly, sensuously stroll around his desk, the fingers of her hand lightly dragging on its surface as she walked. Bruce watched her until she was standing next to him, placing a hand on her hip as she looked down on him confidently. "And I believe I know just how you can pay me back."

She would not be deterred, he could give her that. "And how will I be able to do that?"

"Our last dinner was business. I would like a more...personal one."

Bruce let the corner of his mouth twitch up as he began to turn his chair to face her. "I think we can work something out. I'll have to check my schedule, but I believe I may have something next week."

Vale pouted at that. "I was hoping for something sooner than that."

The billionaire sighed regretfully. "Believe me, so do I. But duty calls, in this case, I _have_ to meet with the mayor. You can only cancel on the man six times before he starts to get offended."

"You sure he wouldn't mind a seventh?"

This time he gave her a humorous grin. "For some reason, people start seeing that as rude. I've sort of cornered myself this time."

"What about later on in the week?" she pressed.

Bruce glanced to this desktop, spotting a confirmation order on it—a ticket to excitement and wonder in the Motor City. "I have a business trip to Detroit. Been in the works for the last two months." He then chuckled. "Lucius would have my head if I dare cancelled that."

Vale shifted her weight from one leg to the other, drawing up both her arms to cross her chest. "Hoping to catch the sights?" she asked pointedly.

"Catch a show as well," he responded.

"Maybe even see that new flying man? The one that glows green?"

Bruce shook his head in amusement, or so he pretended. He had heard of this latest arrival, a man that could make all sorts of objects and shapes out of green light. He intended on getting more acquainted with this green flying man during his trip, not that he would admit that to anyone else. That was assuming he had the time anyways; he really did have a joint-venture to oversee.

"If I find myself being saved by this green guy, I'll be sure to let you know." Waving his hand towards the door, he then added, "Go see Jessica and she'll make all the necessary arrangements."

The redhead didn't look all that pleased with the dismissal, but she nodded her head in acceptance regardless. What was she to do anyway? Refuse to make an appointment? It would be a cold day in Hell before a reporter turned down a potential interview with him. Even if she claimed it had nothing to do with her job, the billionaire knew better. A reporter was never off the clock and he wouldn't doubt if some of his words were used in a future story of hers.

* * *

This was unacceptable. First that Batman crashed his perfect lil hideaway, then the coppers snatched his weapons delivery. If there was one thing Oswald Copplepot hated, it was losin'.

Oh, how he _hated_ losin'.

Right now he was holed up in a cramped basement, a place Maroni used to use for backroom dealin's. The room reeked of cheap cigarettes, the walls saturated with their smoke. It almost made him gag despite his perchance for cigars. When he got out of this room, he was goin' to tear it apart, the entire buildin'. He had only been here less than a day and he hated e'ery stinkin' moment o' it.

As he lounged in a booth, the short man watched as his crew lazed about. Just the very sight o' them made his blood boil. The hell did they think they were doin'? Did their pitiful minds think that just because some freak in a mask ran him out o' his headquarters, they had a holiday? Bloody hell they would.

"Mr. Cobblepot?" someone asked from beside him. "Is there anything I can get for ya?"

The Penguin darted his angry eyes towards the lout. "Is there anythin' you can get me?" he mimicked crudely. "Oh, I believe I can think of somethin'. Like all of you worthless wankers gettin' out o' me sights! What the hell are you doin' sittin' on your asses?! I ain't payin' you just to lay on your backs like lil wenches! Get out there and start findin' me a new home!"

Instantly, the thugs were on their feet, scramblin' for the door. "And it better be better than the last place!" he screamed after 'em. "Anythin' less and I'll yank out your eyeballs and shove 'em down your miserable throats!"

And then, he found himself alone. Or at least he thought he was till he heard a rather soft cough. "I can see you're in a good mood," Candice said from somewhere off to his left.

Turnin' his head, he glared at the woman, still in that bloody red suit jacket and skirt. He was really startin' to hate that suit. "That means you too, girlie," he growled.

"No can do, Mr. Cobblepot."

Had it not been for the table in front o' him, Cobblepot would've jumped to his feet, stormed over to that useless wench, and beat her whatfore. Instead, he shoved the table, causin' it to squeal as its legs skid across the floor. "No one tells me 'no,' you get me?!" he roared. "The last person that did ended up runnin' through the streets on fire!"

"You would set me on fire?" the girlie asked in mock worry. That further pissed off the Penguin.

"In a heartbeat I would."

Any sort of teasin' the lass was up to vanished then. "Your tough guy act may work on those punks of yours," she began, her tone very serious. "But it won't work on me. I'm not in your employ, so there is absolutely nothing you can do to make me do as you please. In fact, _my_ employer would be _very_ upset with you if you were to lay a hand on me, especially after all the financial support he's given you."

The Penguin scowled at the dark-haired woman. She was really beginnin' to press his buttons. Howe'er, instead of climbin' to his feet and doin' unspeakable things to her, he just sagged further into his seat. "That's another thing I've been meanin' to ask you: who is this guy you work for? I appreciate 'em bustin' me out o' jail, but I don't know two wits 'bout him and I hate bein' indebted to someone I don't know."

Candice looked at him nonchalantly. She even raised a hand so she could examine her nails. "That isn't any concern of yours. If I were you, I'd just take what he gives you and go on your merry way."

"Now that is just plain stupid." Seriously, what kind o' woman thought it was okay to stay ignorant? That was no way to survive in this world and had gotten more blokes killed than the number o' baby seals beaten to death by drunken sailors. "I don't make the habit o' not knowin' who my business partners are. I want to meet this mysterious benefactor o' yours."

The girlie paused in her inspection before turnin' her pretty lil head to stare at him. "I don't think that would be a good—"

"No, you don't think," Cobblepot interrupted her. "And that's the difference between you and me. Now here's what I want: I want you to set up a meet between me and your boss, comprende?"

Candice frowned at him. "I'm not sure that's a good—"

"Didn't I tell you I don't take no for an answer? You've got till dawn to send my message. If I don't hear from ya when the first rays o' the sun peek through me window, the next time I see ya I will shoot you in the knees. Both o' them. And then while you're layin' on the floor, cryin' in your own blood, I'm gonna give ya to my boys and let them have a go with you. I'm sure you know just how many blokes work for me and, trust me, e'eryone o' them will get to have fun with ya. Now, do you understand me?"

The girlie was taken back, gawkin' at him with wide eyes. She tried to speak, her mouth openin' and closin' like a goldfish. Finally, she gave in, just like he knew she would. "I'll speak to him about this," she spoke softly.

Cobblepot smirked as he rested his arms on top o' the booth. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it? All I'm askin' is for you to try. I look forward to the favorable reply."

At first she seemed hesitant, but eventually the lil' girlie nodded her head before leavin' the room, the sound o' her high heels clickin' and clackin' on the floor. The Penguin ogled her swingin' backside till she disappeared through the doorway. His smirk lit up his face for several moments before that terrible odor o' cheap cigarettes assaulted his nose again. This buildin' was as good as gone the moment he got out o' here.


	18. Hush

The bats chirped from their perch amongst the stalactites on the cave's ceiling. The glow of the giant supercomputer washed over Bruce as it cycled through information. His fingers flashed across the keyboard as he typed in commands, watching as the screen processed and performed its designed functions.

"Master Bruce? May I have a word?"

Without looking away, the dark-haired man nodded his head as he answered, "Go ahead, Alfred."

The butler stepped up to his right, slightly behind the chair, but well enough to stand in his peripheral vision. "I seem to recall you telling me once that you were not interested in collecting trophies."

"I recall the same thing," Bruce replied, pausing for a moment as he pressed a couple keys. "And I repeat, I'm not looking to amass some pointless collection."

"Then, Master Bruce, would you mind explaining to me why _that_ is in the cave?"

"'That,' Alfred?"

When Alfred remained silent, the younger man frowned as he turned in his chair to face him. The butler had a disapproving look on his face, one of his arms pointing straight towards something behind them. As his chair rotated, Bruce turned to see just what seemed to be irritating his butler and found the sight of a giant Tyrannosaurus Rex looming dangerously in the back of the cave.

_Oh_, _so that's what the old man is getting at._

Shortly after his brush with the automatronic, Bruce had gone to great lengths to remove it from the museum and put it in a place where no one else could get control of it. Seeing that there was no way anyone could get into the cave, he brought it here piece by piece and reassembled it. It had taken the better part of two days to put it together, not to mention making sure there was no way anyone could reactivate it on a whim.

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched up and he returned Alfred's stony look with his amused one. "Just taking precautions."

One of Alfred's white eyebrows raised up. "Precautions, Sir?" His tone conveyed that he didn't believe him for a second.

Shrugging his shoulders, the billionaire turned his chair back to face the computer. "It tried to kill me not too long ago. I'm just making sure that doesn't happen again."

There was a brief moment of silence before Alfred said, "So you're just going to bring every single thing that attempts to kill you into this cave?"

"If need be. Why?"

"Because I highly doubt you can fit the entire city limits of Gotham in here." Hmm, he had walked right into that one, hadn't he? "While I understand your keeping of the Freeze Gun, I hardly see the comparison between it and a giant dinosaur. If you insist on bringing more contraptions into the cave, you better prepare yourself for the responsibility of maintaining them."

Bruce turned his chair again to face his butler. "I'm not going to stick Gotham in here, Alfred. As I'm sure you're aware, Cobblepot used the automatronic to attack me. If it was a matter of removing the machinery that's all I would have done."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"And this has nothing to do with you wanting your very own dinosaur? I distinctly remember you begging your parents for one."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I was five then; I outgrew that whim a long time ago. If it had been a giant butterfly, I would have done the same thing."

"Very well. Just keep in mind what I've told you. If you bring it home—"

"Then I had better take care of it," the young man finished. "Is that all, Alfred?"

Alfred nodded his head in response. The older man then turned to faced the computer when his head perked up. "Oh, before I forget, your bags are packed for your trip."

Bruce smirked as he also turned to face the computer screen. "Thank you, Alfried."

"I'm sure this trip is just what you need. I hear Detroit is nice this time of year, what with the emergence of a new hero."

And the dark-haired man could see where this conversation was going. Why was it everyone thought he wanted to see superhumans duking it out? First the dinosaur lecture, and now this? What was he, a child…

Oh right, that's kind of how he presented himself to the world at large. Still, that didn't mean Alfred had to throw gasoline onto that fire.

Returning his attention to the computer screen again, Bruce began accessing a program. For some reason, Alfred was under the impression that he had yet to outgrow his childhood. There had been a period where he had all sorts of dinosaur toys and books, quickly followed by comic book superheroes, but what child didn't? Like he said, he had outgrown that phase and moved onto other interests. Besides, it wasn't like he was going out of his way to bring every weapon used against him. He would have had every gun in Gotham sitting in a pile down here if that were the case.

Then again, he did have to admit he always wanted his very own dinosaur.

Soon, three pictures appeared on the screen. On the right was of a man in red posing for the camera, one hand on his hip, the other waving, and a big grin on his face. The middle was of a man in blue with a red cape. He had been caught on camera as he was in mid-charge, his fist embedded in the grill of an armored truck, its back lifted off the ground from the blow. Finally, the one on the left was of a dark-skinned man in black and green, floating in midair with an arm extended out, a green beam of light firing from it.

"I see you've been keeping tabs, Sir."

"Can you blame me?" Bruce retorted. "These three men came out of nowhere while performing fantastical feats."

"How unlike anyone I know."

The dark-haired man ignored the comment as he continued, "And all within weeks of each other."

"The same could be said about you and the troubled Mr. Fries."

Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly. It would have been hard for anyone to notice unless they had been looking at him at that moment, but he was sure it didn't escape Alfred's notice. He had a habit of noticing such things. "And it's because of Fries that I have my doubts towards their intentions."

He could hear the hint of disapproval in the butler's voices. "And I suppose you are above such reproach?"

Bruce again began typing, the images disappearing. "I'm the only one I know for certain that has good intentions. Until proven otherwise, I'd rather keep an eye of these new guys instead of getting caught flat-footed again."

There was a moment of silence after that before Alfred said, "I suppose this trip of yours is just good timing on your part to investigate one of them?" From the sound of it, the older man had accepted his reasoning.

Yet, he couldn't take full credit for this serendipitous timing. "It's most definitely something I'll look into," he admitted, sounding lighthearted. "But I have other reasons for going."

"I hardly doubt Bruce Wayne can help a high-stakes negotiation. Or at least that's what you want everyone to think."

Alfred was fishing. The very thought made a bubble of amusement work its way up his throat. Although he was privy to telling the butler everything about him, there were still a couple things he wished to keep to himself. It was only Alfred's inquisitive nature and training that he poked and prodded at these secrets. _Better luck next time, old friend._

Instead, he returned his attention to the computer, just in time for a window to appear on the screen. With a tap on the keyboard, the window began playing a scene, specifically the night at the museum. The video feed was from his point of view, thanks to the visual recording device connected to the lens of his cowl. The current feed showed the stone railing he had hid behind as he listened into Cobblepot's ranting. He had disabled the audio since it was irrelevant what the short man was talking about. Instead, Bruce watched until he managed to get sight of the woman in red. The moment she appeared on screen, he paused the feed, settling back in his chair and regarding her with interest.

Alfred seemed to accept his change of subject. "And who is this, Sir?"

"That's what I'd like to know," he responded a moment later. "Cobblepot called her 'Candice,' but I haven't been able to find a single mentioning of her anywhere. I've tried the GCPD criminal database, FBI, CIA, Interpol. I even checked the DMV. There's nothing on her. It's like she appeared out of thin air."

"Perhaps she's using an alias?"

"That's what I'm thinking. Regardless, an alias wouldn't protect you from a fingerprint scan. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to obtain a set of her prints."

"So what is a lady like her doing with a miscreant like Cobblepot?"

"Either she's working for him, or is a contact for someone else."

"A contact, Sir?"

Typing in a command, a new window opened up, revealing the visitor's center of Blackgate. In the window was Cobblepot, dressed in a jumpsuit and not looking the least bit happy. Playing the video, the two men watched as the criminal sat in his seat, then perking up. That was when a dark-haired woman appeared, taking a seat in front of Cobblepot and picked up the telephone. Stopping the feed, Bruce gazed at it for a moment.

"This is the first and only other recording of the woman that I can find. Judging by Cobblepot's face and body language, this is the first time he's met her. So that leaves her as someone else's gofer."

A silence filled the cave then. This Candice woman was a real mystery, one that Bruce intended to get to the bottom of. Someone had wiped her existence out of any and every database conceived. He didn't like that, not one bit. Despite how destructive Cobblepot was, he was just a pawn and a rather effective one at that.

Standing up, Bruce left his chair and Alfred, making his way towards the stairway that led up to the mansion. Instead of mounting the stairs though, he moved to the right of it. It was here where his costume was, sitting in a display case waiting for him. While he still needed to work on the identity of this Candice woman, there were other things that needed to be done. Opening the case, he stripped out of his dark shirt and slacks, leaving himself in his boxer briefs. Pulling out pieces of his armor, he began putting them on, first his legs and feet, then his torso and arms. Finally, he attached the cape and spun around, the cloth billowing out around and behind him. Pulling on the cowl, he then began pressing buttons on one of his gauntlets, activating the computer systems that ran from the lens of the mask.

It was time for Batman to begin his patrol.

* * *

Tonight was turning out to be quite eventful. Two armed robberies—one at a liquor store and the other right out in the middle of a street—five thefts, a couple of attempted racketeering jobs by Loman's men, and six attempted murders had been foiled by the dark-clad vigilante. Though he enjoyed those flashes of panic on the perpetrator's faces as he closed in on them, it disturbed him to know that such people were still active. It was as if nothing would quell the evil in men's hearts that festered in this city. Still, change did not happen overnight, but took years to achieve. He was building a foundation right now and he could take solace in that.

Coming to an edge of a building, Batman perched at its corner, staring down at the street below. He could make out cars driving up and down the road, others parked on its sides. There were some people on the sidewalks and he paid special attention to them. He could see a small group, about four young man with blatant gang relations if their clothes were anything to go by. They were strutting down the street as if they owned the place. Other bystanders took one look at them and looked away, trying to mind their own business. They were trouble just waiting to happen.

And then, they paused. He had a bad angle on them, so he couldn't tell what one of them said. However, their attention was clearly focused on one thing in front of them. Tilting his head to see just what it was, Batman stiffened.

There, walking towards the gang members was the woman in red. Candice. The suit was identical to the one she wore that night at the museum. Though her dark hair did cover the side of her face, obscuring her identity, the vigilante could feel it in his gut this was Cobblepot's associate.

"Hey Baby," one of the gang members called out, loud enough for Batman to hear. "You lookin' fine tonight." One of them even began woofing like a dog, as if that would somehow charm the woman.

"How'd you like to hang out with us?" another of the young man asked slyly. "This is a rough neighborhood, ya know. You wouldn't want to meet some bad customers."

"That's right, we'll protect ya," the first gang member added with a leer. "And you can show us some gratitude for helpin' ya out."

Candice just kept walking towards them. As she near them though, she slowed to a stop. At this, the young men began to circle her, entrapping her between them. In turn, Batman prepared himself to launch off the roof and make sure none of the hoodlums ever walked without limps.

And then, something peculiar happened. All four of them had leering expressions on their face as they gazed at Candice. A second later, they suddenly appeared horrified by something. The vigilante could hear Candice speak, but she was talking so low that he couldn't make out what it was. Regardless, the four of them moved out of her way and the dark-haired woman began strolling down the street again. The young men just stared after her for several moments before looking to one another.

Batman narrowed his eyes at this. Though he wanted to know just what this woman in red said, he still had her in his sights. It would be best to follow her. She could lead him right to where Cobblepot was hiding and he'd be able to put an end to the short man's rampage.

Pulling out his grabble, he fired it at a nearby building and began repelling to it.

* * *

Candice had gone to a fifteen-story apartment building. It was in one of Gotham's more modest residential areas, so it wasn't covered in graffiti associated with the poorer neighborhoods nor had the ritziness that the upper class reveled in.

A red flag had gone off in Batman's head upon seeing it. He had been studying Candice ever since he saw her, reading her body language. She carried herself with confidence and grace as if the world around her couldn't touch her. Considering she had favor with Cobblepot, perhaps that was an accurate perspective when faced with the dregs of the city.

Yet, her mannerisms screamed that she didn't belong in such a humble establishment. She was more likely to frequent a high-class restaurant that she was a fastfood joint. And still, she walked into the building as if she were wholly comfortable with it. He didn't like it, not one bit.

Entering the apartment building, Batman stalked the halls, keeping out of sight when he reached the lobby. He caught sight of Candice standing in front of two elevator doors, waiting for one of them to open. It was several moments before one did and she stepped into the steel cage, the doors closing soon after. Keeping still, the vigilante waited as he watched an old-fashion clock hand move over a plaque, the numbers 1-15 painted on it. It seemed to take forever as the hand slowly crossed over each number.

And then it stopped on 13; that had to be the floor Candice got off on. Immediately, Batman left the building, reaching the outside quickly. From there he grappled up to the thirteenth floor and began looking through each window. Hopefully the dark-haired woman would enter a room that had a window. It would've been a pain to find out if she entered a windowless room. Then again, what apartment building offered a windowless room to begin with?

The vigilante ended up circling the building twice. Several of the rooms had light flooding through the windows, showing him the residents. There were some families here, watching TV with each other or spending time on their own in their respective bedrooms. Other rooms had single occupants, but they seemed more interested in their own diversions than spotting a dark shadow peaking at them. There were still a number of rooms that were dark, and thus currently unoccupied. He couldn't find any sight of Candice until he made his second pass and it was just as she was entering one of the rooms he had marked as unoccupied.

Keeping out of sight, Batman moved to the window next to the one he had spotted Candice in. He had to jimmy it open, but fortunately he didn't make too much noise doing so. Carefully he slipped in and slowly stalked towards the empty room's entrance.

Already he could hear a woman's voice. "He's demanding to meet with you. I tried to change his mind, but he wouldn't budge."

Because the door was halfway open, Batman kept himself close to the wall next to the door frame, leaning over to the opening to glance through it. Immediately he spotted Candice, her arms crossed over her midsection and looked very unhappy. Standing in front of her was a man in a trench coat. At least he thought it was a man, based on the person's build. There were bandages wrapped around his head that made it difficult to determine though.

That made Batman perk his head up. Faintly, he recalled one of the gang members from that riot claiming a man with bandages on his face had put them up to their violence. Was this the man?

"I can't say this wasn't unexpected," the bandaged man spoke, his voice soft. It was as if he were talking in a loud whisper, raspy and hauntingly distorted. The vigilante narrowed his eyes. He knew when someone was trying to hide their voice; he did it all the time. "Cobblepot isn't a man to be blindly led by the nose."

"So are you going to meet him?" Candice demanded impatiently. "Because that little shit was threatening me. I haven't heard of such vileness before."

The man's face twitched, but wasn't able to show much of an expression. Batman half-expected he wanted to smirk, but the bandages on his face were wrapped too tightly for that. "No, I don't believe I will. Not yet anyways."

"So what? I just tell him you said no? And then he has his entire gang rape me? Not gonna happen."

It was then the vigilante noticed something odd with Candice. She seemed to be bloating, something he thought was a trick of the lights. That all vanished when her clothes began melting, dripping down her body in rolls. In sick fascination, Batman watched as the woman grew taller and wider, the colors of her clothes and body dulling and mixing until it began an orange-clay color. Her hair and head were enveloped by this melted sludge, leaving only a misshapen dome for her head.

Batman instantly knew what he saw in front of him: Matt Hagan, or at least the creature he had become. He had no idea how that was possible, but somehow he had become a woman. No wonder he couldn't find a background on her. More troubling still, he hadn't a clue how Hagan had managed to change. There had been no sign of that in Tommy's cream that hinted at such a result.

Things had gotten more complicated.

"I'll rip their tiny peckers right off if anyone of them tries," Hagan continued menacingly, his deep voice growling with rage.

"I would advise on not blowing your cover," the bandaged man advised. "We don't want to scare off Cobblepot at this stage of the game."

"I don't give a rat's ass about your plan! There are some lines you don't just cross, even that shrimp. I'd like to see his face if I let him see the real me."

The bandaged man stared at Hagan disapprovingly before he let out an aggrieved sigh. "Fine, I will talk to Cobblepot, no more. But _you_ will not ruin all of our work because you want to show off your powers."

The two men stared each other down, a struggle of wills. It took a moment before Hagan finally nodded his head that the bandaged man relaxed, glancing away from the misshapen creature and looking about the room. It was then that the mystery man seemed to pause. The next thing Batman knew, he had pulled out a pistol and aimed it right towards the vigilante's door.

Eyes widened, Batman jerked back from the entrance, just as a gunshot was fired and a piece of the wooden door exploded into the room. There was another shot and the wall behind the dark-clad man burst, a jolt of pain screaming in his back. Letting out a cry, he dropped to the floor, a hand going to his back.

He was thankful that he couldn't feel any blood. That was the good news; thank God for his body armor. Too bad it didn't stop him from feeling the full force of the bullet hitting him. Damn that had hurt. Gritting his teeth, he began picking himself off the floor.

"Go see who that was," he heard the bandaged man order. The heavy footsteps told Batman that it was Hagan who was approaching. Unfortunately, he wasn't completely prepared to fight that creature again; that was an oversight on his part.

Still, it wasn't like he was completely out of options. Based on their previous encounter, small moves were useless against Hagan. He would have to bring out the heavy artillery. Pulling out a bat-shaped shuriken, he pressed his thumb on its body until the red light began to flash. Looking to the doorway, he could partially see the former actor standing outside of the door through the hole in it.

The moment Hagan pushed the door open, Batman threw the shuriken. It dug into Hagan's chest, causing him to stop in his tracks and look at the projectile dumbfounded. "Wha?"

A second later, the shuriken exploded, causing the creature to scream out in pain as he jerked backwards. Charging, Batman closed the distance between them and leapt into the air, ramming his shoulder into the screaming Hagan. The misshapen man stumbled backwards until he fell onto the floor, landing on his backside. From where he stood, he could see the damage the blast had caused. Hagan's chest was cratered inward, his head extended upwards and back as he howled loudly. His neck appeared stretched and a portion of it looked missing, giving the impression that his head was barely hanging onto his body.

The cocking of the hammer of a gun stopped Batman from doing anything further. "That's quite enough," the bandaged man said, his weapon pointed right at the vigilante. The two of them stared each other down, even as Hagan continued to cry in pain. That apparently irritated the mystery man.

"Pull yourself together," he ordered.

"Fuck you!" Hagan shot back. "This hurts!"

"And yet, you can still repair the damage. Do so and leave. I have this under control."

Hagan glared at his partner through pained eyes, but did as he was told. The creature's chest seemed to balloon outwards and his neck thickened. Soon, it was as if Hagan had never been hurt, aside from his fatigued panting. That wasn't something Batman liked to see.

Slowly, the misshapen hulk pushed himself onto his feet. He had turned his glare onto the vigilante, seeming oblivious to his comrade. "You'll pay for that," he threatened.

The bandaged man immediately responded. "I told you to leave."

Hagan swung his head around. "But El—"

"Hush," the man interrupted. "Do as I say. There's a back door in the other room. Get going."

Finally, Hagan accepted the order, albeit begrudgingly. There was a large opening beside the bandaged man, leading into a kitchen. Hagan trudged through the opening and disappeared behind the wall.

"I must apologize for my associate; he's rather a brute," the bandaged man apologized, causing Batman to raise an eyebrow.

Still, he ignored it. "Who are you?"

"My name is of little consequence to you," was the reply. "And it's much too early in the game to be giving you answers."

This time the vigilante scowled. "You're the one behind Cobblepot's release."

The man seemed hesitant, but eventually nodded his head. "I suppose that's obvious at this point. You've heard my earlier conversation."

Batman didn't dignify the admission with his acknowledgement. "Why are you doing this?"

"Figure it out. You are not a stupid man and neither am I. If you wish to solve a riddle, you first have to acquire the correct knowledge to answer it. That is my challenge to you. You've obtained some of the puzzle pieces, but it is up to you to put them in the right place."

"This isn't a game," the vigilante growled.

"Oh, but it is! A grand game that started without you ever realizing it. Of course, you've changed the balance of the game this evening, but the end is yet to come."

"You won't win."

"That is where you are wrong. When this is over, the whole world will know you have failed gloriously. They will speak my name in reverence when I present to them your downfall."

"A name you refuse to give out."

"A name is simply a title presented to you at birth, yet some extraordinary people manage to earn new ones. My current title is of little significance, but if you must know me by one, you may call me…" he trailed off, seemingly lost in thought. Then his composure returned as he finally said, "Hush."

_Hush, huh?_ For someone so careful, he allowed his hubris to trap him. Not once had he demanded to see the vigilante's hands. For that he would pay a dear price. A shuriken in hand, he sent it flying at Hush. Instantly, the man turned his gun on the projectile and shot it, the bullet making a ringing sound as lead hit metal. The precision of the shot was breath-taking, he had to admit. Still, it providing enough of an opening for Batman to launch himself across the room, an arm raised up and holding another shuriken as Hush turned his armed hand to point his gun back at him.

Throwing the shuriken, this one rang true as it collided with the bandaged man's hand, knocking his gun out of his grasp as he hissed in pain. Closing the distance between them, the vigilante slammed his fist into his opponent's face, causing him to jerk to a side as spit flew from his mouth. With the same arm, Batman crossed it over his chest before swinging it back, backhanding Hush as he forced him to twist in the other direction. Grabbing his foe by this trench coat with both hands, the dark-clad man then lifted Hush right off the floor and rammed his back into the nearby wall.

Holding him there, Batman leaned into his beaten opponent and growled. "This is over."

Hush's head jerked up at those words. "No, it's _not_," he returned the growl. Suddenly, Batman felt the bandaged man's hand up against his chest, pushing him back. The vigilante wasn't sure what Hush's intent was until he raised his legs up, bent at the knees and pressed his feet into him. Roughly extending his legs out, the bandaged man forced Batman back, causing the coat to slip through his fingers as he stumbled backwards.

Hush immediately dropped to the floor, somehow landing crouched on his feet. He then bolted through the doorway Hagan had used, disappearing into the kitchen. Instantly, Batman was after him, flying into the kitchen and what appeared to be a darkened dining room, just in time to see the tail end of the fleeing man's coat disappearing around a corner.

Rushing to it, the vigilante found himself entering what was best describe as a small hall, barely long enough to have one door and frame cover the right wall. The wall right in front of him had a large mirror in front of it. Normally it wasn't something he would have stopped to look at, but when he noticed Hush's reflection in it, standing on the other side of the room behind him, it made him curse internally. He hadn't seen Hush running this way, instead seeing the movement of his coat in the mirror as he stood in the darkness the shadows provided him. And if he wasn't mistaken, he saw the bandaged man raising up another handgun at him and pointing it right at his back.

Yet, he wasn't worried despite his opponent having the drop on him. With practiced ease, he dropped into a crouch, turning to his left as he did so. His left hand went to his belt and withdrew a shuriken. And as he turned towards Hush, he flung his arm out, throwing the projectile. It all happened within the span of a second, maybe even less than that.

Impressively, Hush dodged to his right, the bat-shaped shuriken embedding itself into the wall. He definitely had a perfect shot at the vigilante had he chosen to do so. Much to Batman's surprise, the bandaged man dashed back towards the kitchen, running up to a window and forcing it open.

The next thing he knew, Hush hauled himself out of the window and disappeared as he fell out of sight. Immediately, Batman charged towards the window and dove through the opening, hands extended over his head as he made himself as streamline as possible.

Instantly, gravity was pulling him down. As he angled himself to fall head first, Batman suddenly felt his heart sink. Two story below him was Hush, falling as well, but back first, legs and arms extended in front of him. In both hands he held twin pistols, each aiming right at him. Hush had him dead-to-rights again, and this time it looked as if he wouldn't be passing the chance up.

The roar of gunfire erupted as Hush fired at him. Doing the only thing he could do, Batman held his arms crossed in front of him in an attempt to at least cover his face and head. It was pitiful really, but what else could he do?

Bullets whizzed around him as the two fell. Considering the man had managed to shoot one of the vigilante's shuriken in midair, this was surprising to him, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The wind resistance was probably interfering with his shots, forcing his arms to waver and change the aim of the guns.

That's when he got hit. One of Hush's shots managed to finally hit him in his forearm, the force of the blow knocking his arm away from his face. A couple more shots flew by him, but another soon made contact as well, hitting him in the chest. This time he was thrown back, his head and feet trading places as he went from falling head first to feet first.

Batman let out a pained cry. This just wasn't his day for being shot at. Looking down, a fast-approaching flag pole sticking out from the building appeared in his sight. He barely got his arms out before he hit it, the metal pole slamming into chest as he clamped his arms down on it. The air in his lungs was violently forced out, causing him to gasp. Pain burned through his torso. Oh, he definitely cracked a rib or two there.

Sucking in as much air as he could when he was able to, he finally let out a hiss as he pushed himself through pain, gritting his teeth as he did so. Tilting his head down, it was then he caught sight of Hush still falling, much to his horror. The bandaged man had stopped firing his guns, bring down his arms to either side of him and extending them out. His legs were also down to, the man forming a T with his body.

Even if he wanted to, there was no way Batman could have pulled out his grapple. No way he could have saved the man from the approaching pavement. Every fiber of his being screamed out for something, anything to stop what he knew was about to happen.

When Hush hit the pavement, there was a huge splatter, but not of blood as the vigilante expected. Instead, his body exploded out into a large dull-colored puddle, spreading out over the street below from sidewalk to sidewalk. It stayed that way for a few moments before the spatter began shrinking in on itself.

And right in the middle of it, something began to form and extend out of it. Even from here, Batman could make out the head, chest, and shoulders of Matt Hagan. The mud creature stopped at that point, turning his head up to look at the vigilante with a large, sinister grin on his face. Then, he began moving, sliding across the street until he reached a storm drain and oozing into it. His half-formed body flattened out again so he could fully disappear into the drain, much to Batman's chagrin.

This time he was bearing his teeth for a whole other reason. This was the second time he had fallen for Hagan's falling trick and it enraged him to know that. Jerking his head up, he looked towards the apartment they had jumped out of. Somehow, Hush and Hagan had switched places up there, in the single second he had lost sight of both of them. It was likely he had seen Hush's trenchcoat as he ran into that little alcove. And instead of Hagan leaving as he was told to do, he had waited in that family room and taken on Hush's form.

He had to get back into that apartment. While it was likely the real Hush was long gone, he still had to investigate the place for any evidence left behind. Unfortunately, with the way this night had gone, he sincerely doubted he'd find anything worthwhile.

That thought didn't stop him as he pulled out his grapple and fired it skyward.


	19. Under Thumb

"I do believe these will be leaving a mark, Sir."

Bruce sat on the edge of the medical table, the top of his armor lying discarded on the nearby floor, along with his cape and mask. Ugly, purple bruises were growing on his lower back, left forearm, and chest, right where he had been shot earlier in the night. It seemed his investment in the armor had paid off.

Though he wasn't all too thrilled knowing that.

As expected, there was nothing he could find in Hush's apartment. No clues to his identity or motive, or even his discarded handgun that the vigilante had knocked out of his grasp. Hush had made sure to wipe out any evidence that he had even been there. With that disappointment, Batman had left the scene and headed home to determine the extent of his injuries.

Alfred was currently assessing him, looking for any other bodily damaged inflicted on him. The bruises had been instantly noticed the moment the armor came off, to which the butler had simply raised an eyebrow, but otherwise kept quiet. The areas were very tender, as demonstrated when Alfred began palpating them.

"It would seem my administrations aren't required any further for the night," the older man eventually said as he stepped away from Bruce, moving to an open first aid kit and closing it. Bandages had been wrapped around the billionaire's torso in an attempt to provide support to his ribs. Alfred had found two of them cracked during his assessment and set about making sure they didn't have any additional strain put on them. It was all he really could do since there wasn't much a person could do with injured ribs. It'd take some time before they were anywhere near recovered.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said as he slid off the table and began walking towards the edge of the plateau. Finding the metal staircase, he descended them onto the main floor and headed for the computer. His breathing was a little quicker due to the constant dull pain he felt in his chest, but he shoved the observation aside.

From behind, he could hear Alfred following him. "I do say, Sir, your holiday could not have come at a better time."

"It wasn't intentional," the dark-haired man grunted back as he took a seat in his chair. Then to the computer, he ordered, "Computer, bring up suit recording 101714." A window immediately appeared on the screen, the image of the cave being shown. "Skip to 2216." The image stalled before it was replaced with the sight of the empty room at the apartment complex. It was at the point where Matt Hagan was still in his Candice disguise and was ranting to his new friend, Hush. The audio kicked it, Hagan's Candice voice saying, "_So what? I just tell him you said no? And then he has entire gang rape me? Not gonna happen._"

Once more, Bruce watched as the feminine form of Candice disappeared into the giant mud form of Hagan. "My word," Alfried gasped next to him.

Pausing the video feed with a click of the keyboard, Bruce replied, "Incredible, isn't it."

"Undoubtedly, Sir. How is this possible?"

"If I had to guess, it has something to do with Tommy's plastic surgery cream. This is just another side-effect, though I haven't a clue as to how. Only Hagan knows how he found out about it and he's certainly put in a lot of practice into it. However," at this his fingers flashed across the keyboard, the image zooming in on the seated form of Hush, "this one is who concerns me most."

"And he is?"

"Goes by the name Hush. He seems to be the puppet master behind Hagan and Cobblepot. Unfortunately, not much else is known about him other than he is an impressive shot with a pistol."

Tapping a button, the video feed continued. "_I'll rip their tiny peckers right off if anyone of them tries,_" Hagan continued on his rant.

"_I would advise on not blowing your cover,_" Hush said in that whispering voice of his. "_We don't want to scare off Cobblepot at this stage of the game._"

"_I don't give a rat's ass about your plan! There are some lines you don't just cross, even that shrimp. I'd like to see his face if I let him see the real me._"

"_Fine, I will talk to Cobblepot, no more. But _you _will not ruin all of our work because you want to show off your powers._"

The two began staring themselves down. Bruce then fast-forward the video until Hagan had left the room, and Hush was pointing his gun at him. "_A name is simply a title presented to you at birth, yet some extraordinary people manage to earn new ones. My current title is of little significance, but if you must know me by one, you may call me…Hush._"

That was when the action began as a bat-shaped shuriken went flying towards Hush. Again, the bandaged man shot it down in mid-flight, which earned another comment from Alfred. "Impressive."

Stopping the feed, Bruce then said, "Computer, analyze subject's voice and compare vocal patterns." The computer instantly began running the diagnostics, doing as it was told. It took a few minutes, but its results were just as he expected them to be.

_NO MATCH_

Again, he wasn't surprised. The hushed tone distorted the bandaged man's voice enough to make it unrecognizable for proper analysis. He had expected as much, but had to run it in the off-chance something was detected. Leave no stone unturned, as they say.

Unfortunately, this just led to darker thoughts for the billionaire. Cobblepot had already shown he was a handful all on his own; having Hush and Hagan conspiring together for some unknown purpose was another complication in this mess. While Cobblepot's motive was simple, the other two weren't. Although Hagan seemed to have a grudge against Wayne Enterprises, it was surprising he wouldn't try another attack, especially with his new-found shapeshifting abilities.

What everything came down to was finding out Hush's motive. The other two didn't act without his order and he was the only one with an endgame in mind. It would have helped if the bandaged man had left some sort of hint of his goals, but he was a cautious man. Hell, he had even gone to the trouble of removing the bullets he had fired in the apartment. The shuriken he had shot midair was gone, along with the bullet most likely inbedded in it. There had been one in the wall that had blasted through the door, but Hush had pried it out somehow. Bruce still wondered how he did it considering it couldn't have been more than a minute or two. That indicated this man was very skilled with his hands. Great hand-eye coordination too because of his shooting prowels. Paranoid as well since he went about removing every bullet he could from a crime scene.

Wait...not every bullet. Turning in his chair, he faced Alfred. "Alfred, go to the suit and check the back. See if there's a bullet lodged in it, and if so, bring it to me."

The butler nodded his head and made an about-face, primly walking off and towards the medical center. It was several minutes before Alfred returned, two medical gloves on his hands and a small metal dish held in one hand.

Bruce reached out to the older man and accepted the dish. Inside of it was a crushed bullet. Excellent. With this he could run an analysis on the bullet and determine what weapon Hush used. From there he could find out who owned the same weapon.

It wasn't much to be honest, but it was a starting point.

* * *

It was almost dawn.

Cobblepot lazily gazed at the digital numbers on the clock, another minute bitin' the dust as a four became a five. A stub o' what had once been a rather lovely cigar was held out in front o' him, its end still lettin' a tad bit o' smoke off.

Though he looked relaxed, his temper was beginnin' to boil over. He had told that Candice bitch she had till dawn and it looked like she wasn't goin' to make it. Shame really, she had a nice ass, which he never got tired o' watchin'. He was goin' to miss her, he lamented, but it was a price he paid to be where he was today.

Besides, there were other asses he could get in 'ere.

With a sneer, he tore his eyes away from the clock and roughly stamped his cigar stub into a nearby ashtray. The short man had other, better things to do.

That all changed when the phone began to ring.

"With minutes to spare," he remarked as he stared at the phone. There was a brief pause before it rang again. Reachin' to it, he picked up the phone and held it up to his ear. "Start talkin'"

"_I hear you wanted to speak to me,_" a whispered voice responded.

Penguin scowled. "Who the bloody hell is this?"

"_You and I have a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Cobblepot,_" the voice on the other end said instead, raisin' the short man's ire. "_The lovely Candice. As you can guess, I am the one that had you released from prison._"

Cobblepot leaned back into his seat, his gaze movin' up towards the ceilin'. "Well, well, the girlie pulled through," he commented more to himself than the phone. Then to the mystery man, he directed, "You heard right. I want to meet with ya, sooner rather than later."

"_I'm afraid that will not be possible._" Once more, the Penguin felt his irritation rise up. "_I am indisposed of at the moment._"

"Well then, get your ass un-indisposed and meet me at Gotham Zoo, tonight. You and I have _much_ to discuss."

"_No, I believe we don't._"

Alright, enough was enough. He had tried bein' civil, tried to be the nice guy, but he would never be a man that took no for an answer. "Now you listen to me, you bloody wanker. You _will_ be at the bloody zoo, or else Ms Candice is goin' to find herself in a rather ugly situation. While I would _hate_ to see such a lovely lil girlie in such a state, don't think I won't hesitate to do so."

There was a pause before the mystery man simply said, "_You will do no such thing._"

"O' won't I?" Penguin shot back. "I don't believe you know me quite as well as you think. I—"

"_I know exactly who and what you are, Oswald Cobblepot, son of a family fallen from grace. What was it like watching your mother and father squandering the family fortune? It couldn't have been nearly as traumatic as having to flee the country when loan sharks and mob families began leaving mutilated bodies on your front lawn._"

Cobblepot's mouth hung open. "How...how do you—"

"_You went to London, is that correct? Of course it is, considering your rather distinctive accent. It must have been rough for you, not only moving into a neighborhood far beneath the life you were accustomed to, but to watch as your parents descended into a shell of a mother and an alcoholic of a father. Neither of them were much help when the bullies came for you, constantly beating on you, ridiculing you, isolating you._"

The short man could feel his stomach drop. It...it was impossible. There was no way this man could know all of this.

"_Yet you learned, didn't you? One day you had enough and began to retaliate, not in an obvious manner of course. It started out passive-aggressive until you had assumed so much power, your tormentors, well, there's not much left of them is there? So when you reached the pinnacle of prominence, you decided to come back home and re-establish yourself. That didn't work out so well once the Batman got his hands on you, did it?_"

When Cobblepot remained silent, the mystery man continued, "_So you see, I do know you, Mr. Cobblepot. I'm not a man that goes blindly into an alliance. I am always six moves ahead of you, the police...the Batman, and anyone else that wishes to defy me. So you had better accept your station, or you will find yourself in a rather precarious position. You owe your current circumstance to me and if I so wish it I can take it away from you._

"_Do we..._understand _each other?_"

It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to Oswald Cobblepot that way. In fact, that was how he spoke to the boys when they was less than successful. It was shockin' to be on the other side of that tone once again. And unfortunately, there was nothin' he could do to resist it. That served to ignite his anger, its burnin' rage festerin' in his insides.

With bared teeth, he answered, "We understand each other."

"_Excellent. Now then, to business. As I understand it, you have an arms shortage in part to the GCPD seizing the latest weapons shipment and your loss of your previous headquarters. It would be in our interests to remedy that unfortunate matter._

"_Candice will be returning to you with information on the next exchange. I trust there won't be any other setbacks this time._"

"No, there won't be," Penguin reluctantly said.

"_Oh, and Mr. Cobblepot, do not lay a finger on Candice. As her employer, I find myself in the position of protecting my employees. If I find out that any harm has come to her, I promise you that prison will be the least of your concerns._"

"Right, right, don't hurt the girlie. Anything else ya want to address, or are you through?"

There was a soft chuckle, tellin' the short man that his caller was quite amused with his remark. Howe'er, instead of replyin', there was a click and the dial tone blared into Penguin's ear. Holdin' the receiver out in front o' his face as he looked at it blandly, he then set it back on its base.

Howe'er, his calm demeanour hid the fury that raged inside o' him. No one spoke to him that way, no one. If he thought a threat would keep Oswald Cobblepot in line, then he had another thing comin'! He'd act the cowed pigeon for now, but the moment that bastard turned his back he'd find his body filled with nine inches of metal.

He was the Penguin, the soon-to-be King o' Gotham. And nobody crossed a king.

* * *

"I am so glad you're able to see me today."

Abrupt as always and with a hint of condescension that was as obvious as the sun on a sunny day, Forbes strolled on into the commissioner's office as if he already owned it. Probably thought he did, Gordon mused to himself.

The thick file that Forbes carried under an arm was not an encouraging sight. That must have been what he was boasting about on the phone. That was a lot and not the kind of thing he wanted to see so early in the morning.

"Let's get this over with," he grunted as he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Yep, he was getting a headache.

"So eager to be rid of me? And here I thought we were getting along." With a loud slap, Forbes plopped the file on his desk and took a seat. You could see in his posture the smugness he had. Whatever he had found, it had to have been the kind of thing that gave him wet dreams at night.

And speaking of hard-ons…

"Gordo, Gordo, Gordo, you have been a naughty boy, haven't you? You like everybody to think that you're this example of a clean cop, but really you're just as dirty as any of the others, maybe more so." How the commissioner wanted to wipe that grin off the IA agent's face. "Why don't you take a look into that little folder right there. Refresh your memory a bit."

Oh, so now it was little? The Simpson file had to have been thinner than this one, at least by half an inch.

Begrudgingly, he reached over and grabbed the damn thing, hefting it over to a somewhat clear area on his desk and flipped it open. Lots of papers in here, but most files like this one had papers. It was what was on the papers that was more important.

As he began looking them over, he demanded, "What the hell am I looking at?"

"Oh, just a bunch of little things, like shovelfuls of dirt," Forbes remarked. "And like that dirt, it's going to bury you. Where did that money come from Gordo? I'm curious, is it from the chinks in Chinatown, or what was left of Maroni before he got axed? Those are some mighty fine gifts you've received."

Records...of bribery? The first thing Gordon wanted to ask was who would ever keep a record of bribes? The answer came to him immediately after: the type of person who wanted to take everything and everyone else down with him if he got caught, that's who.

"You have proof that any of this happened?" he asked though it sounded more like a statement.

"That's what the rest of it is," the infuriating man said cheekily. "I've got you cold, Gordon. Bribes and the evidence that they happened. Should have chosen your friends more carefully."

"And be friends with you?" he fired back as he turned several pages. The very thought sickened him. With a glance back to the folder, he could feel his stomach drop further. Damn, there was indeed the info on where those bribes had come from.

"If only you were that lucky," Forbes chuckled. Christ, that laugh was annoying. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. There's more than a few bribery charges—" a few his ass, "—it gets better."

Oh goody, he couldn't wait for it to get better.

Flipping a page, he felt his face setting itself in a permanent frown. What was Hill doing in here? Why was there crap about the former mayor in this file?

"Suddenly your rise in the ranks makes more sense," Forbes commented, looking up at the ceiling as if he was pondering the mysteries of life. "You and Hill were quite close. Friends who rise together are corrupt together I always say."

Gordon wanted to snort at that, but didn't. It seemed ridiculous, but this file was saying differently—showed differently. He barely knew Hill except as the man who put him in this office. Yet, there was an actual photograph—make that several—of him and Hill being buddy buddy. Huh, he actually remembered one of the places in the photos, though he couldn't recall why he was there. Room looked familiar and everything and there he was and there Hill was and the time-stamp was a few years ago.

Wouldn't he remember something like that? Why wasn't he remembering that? Now would be a really good time to remember it.

"I'm liking the look on your face, Gordo. Something caught your attention? Mind if I take a peek?" The man was starting to push himself out of his seat. Maybe he was being passive-aggressive, but the commissioner flipped to the next photo and the one after that. If Forbes was smart, he'd be counting photos so he could attempt to track down the one that gave him pause. Gordon wouldn't put it past the younger man to do that.

Well, at least he thought he was younger. Forbes was one of those men you couldn't tell what his age was by looking at him.

By now he was getting through half the file, admittingly skipping over some of it. It was all damning, every bit of it, but what was worse was that he was having trouble refuting any of it. It had all the various hallmarks that someone engaging in bribery would have. A lot of inconspicuous things that if alone were innocent enough, but with the right spin could be insidious.

And damn him, this old man couldn't remember anything that could save his own skin. Heh, never thought he ever would use that phrase to describe himself.

And that prick on the other side of his desk was eating all of it up. Every grimace, every wrinkle, every second that Gordon's complexion paled. Forbes was like a hunting dog that had finally caught his quarry and he knew it. Considering the man's reputation, it wasn't a wonder he ever found this file.

Gordon paused, his eyes blinking owlishly. Where _had_ Forbes found this file?

"Where did you get all this?" the man in the metaphorical pile of shit questioned. That question caused the commissioner to pause both in action and in those thoughts. Indeed, it was a very good questioned.

"How else do you think? A lot of good detective work." Now Forbes was propping his feet up on his desk as if it was his.

Call his memory what you wanted, but Gordon caught what the IA agent had said.

"I didn't ask how. I want to know where." Now he was looking straight into the other man's eyes, a first for this meeting.

"What's it matter, the where? I think the fact any of that exists is more important than where it was found," was the dismissal that the commissioner received.

He couldn't help himself. Really, he couldn't. "I don't know, my lawyer might like to know the answer to that question. Did you find it all in one place, or did you piece it together? If it's the last one, why does it flow so well?"

"Because I'm very good at piecing pieces of shit like you together." Forbes growled.

"Fine, then where all did you find each and every piece? I highly doubt Hill kept photos of him and me in such easily accessible places. He's a politician after all and those people never leave their dirty laundry out for show."

Why did it look like Forbes was eating all of that up?

"But old men forget a lot of things, don't they Gordon?"

Okay, that was hitting a little too close to home there. Like Forbes was expecting him not to remember a lot of what was in that folder. "Where did you find the file?"

"You'll find out, along with the rest of the world, at your hearing. I want you to stew in this for a while longer and while you do that, I want you to start looking for other jobs. I hear they're in need of some meter maids in Metropolis."

"Where did you find the file?" Gordon repeated more sternly.

"Why do you even care?" was the rude retort.

"Because you're going to have the tell the world where you did and if your answer isn't satisfactory, you'll be destroyed on the stand. And trust me, my union-appointed lawyer will see to that." A smirk appeared on the commissioner's face as he watched the IA lieutenant's face darken. "Besides, according to _the law_, I have the right to know _everything_ you do _before_ the hearing."

"And last I checked, your _lawyer_ is the one to make that request. Besides, you should know Gordon: you don't find files, you make them."

For the first time since Forbes entered his office, Gordon leaned back in his chair, feeling quite relaxed. "Suddenly yours isn't all that solid, eh Lieutenant?"

"It's more solid that you can believe."

"Then why can't you answer a simple question."

"I already have. You're just too demented not to realize it."

"Because you _can't_ answer it."

"Don't push me Gordon," Forbes threatened. "I have a lot more where this came from. I just felt like I should give you a taste, but if you want to pull this crap on me, I'll see you in court."

The commissioner snorted. "Felt you should, hell, you're under legal obligation to share everything you find with me. Get off your high-horse, Forbes. And while you're at it, get the hell out of my office."

"It's yours for now, but don't get comfortable. I've been nice before. Now you're going to see me when I'm _mean_." Forbes stood up from his seat, and marched out of the office, not bothering to close the door behind him.

Not a second later, Bullock peeked in. "Never saw him like that before. What'd you say?"


	20. The Elliot Investigation

It was never a dull day at the office—unless, you know, you count all that bullshit paperwork you had to fill out for every little thing you did. Only bureaucracy could make something like murder boring.

Not that Bullock would be saying that out loud in the middle of a crime scene because no matter what, you could always count on one of those politically correct assholes being around to give you problems.

But yeah, just by looking at this place, the sergeant could see the reams of paperwork he was going to have to do. Like the last couple of ones he was involved with, it was a rich and fancy place and the victim was a male who was undoubtedly wealthy. Go figure. They were dropping like flies now and it was getting all the hoity-toity types up in arms. God forbid they were next!

In fact, he wouldn't have been here with Montoya if a certain name hadn't come up. Yep, you guessed it. This guy also had a link to Elliot Pharmaceuticals, just like the last guy and the guy before that one.

"Who wants to bet what this guy is missing?" Bullock asked aloud. "His gut ain't cut open and we got a whole body to look at. Any guesses?"

"I don't think now is a good time to be making jokes about it," Montoya said. Much to her credit, she didn't look as sick as she did the first couple times. Good job, Rook.

"Now that's something we gotta work on. You're not gonna last long if you can't learn to laugh a bit." He took note that this guy's face had a part of it that was missing. "I've seen good guys crack because they took things too seriously."

"What about those who do nothing but laugh?"

"They're just crazy." He shrugged his shoulders. Focusing on the body, the carpeting beneath his head stained a bloody red, the sergeant tilted his head to a side as if trying to look at it from another angle. Lying on its back, the corpse was situated with sightless eyes staring straight up at the ceilings, arms and legs pointing haphazardly in random directions as if the body had dropped there.

Expensive clothes covered the body, but those too were stained red. So far he couldn't tell if there was an area that was darker in color, which would give away the location of a wound; unfortunately, with as much blood on the carpeted floor, it was hard to tell where any wound was.

"Think its on his back?" Bullock asked.

"Probably," a random officer answered. Could have sworn he knew his name, but nothing was coming to mind. Eh, it would come to him later.

"What are the odds he has a big connection to Elliot Pharmaceuticals and doesn't just work there? He one of the big wigs?"

"He's on the board of directors," Montoya confirmed for him. She walked around the body, staring intently at the stiff. "Justs like the first one."

"You believe in coincidence, Rook?" He stood up from his crouched position on the floor.

"In this job I shouldn't," she answered.

Jerking his head to a side, gesturing to her to follow him, he said, "Get this poor bastard to the morgue. If he's anything like the first, he's got something missing. I want to know what it is and if it has any meaning like the gutless one."

He still was kinda getting a laugh out of that one. So what? Sue him.

Walking over and into the next room, Bullock motioned for Montoya to close the door behind her. "That makes three there. Any thoughts, Rook?"

"It's someone with a grudge, don't you think?" Montoya looked a little uncomfortable, but she was getting better at hiding it. Still, Bullock wasn't half as dumb as he looked, not that he looked dumb by any stretch of the word.

"Yeah, I'd say so. First we got the gutless guy, what's his face."

"Quentin Spacey."

"Yeah, that guy. Then we have liver guy at his house in...um…"

"Jeremiah Strong in Gotham Heights."

"Right, but we haven't found that part of him yet. And now we got, uh, whose this one?"

"Bartholomew Fairman III."

"Okay, now his parents were asking for his butt to get kicked. Seriously? I used to beat up a kid name Bartholomew in grade school. I wonder what the killer took from him? His balls?"

"There would have been more blood in his groin area for that."

"So we have three guys. One without guts, one without his liver, and one we don't know yet. You thinking what I'm thinking, Rook?"

"I can't say, what are you thinking, Sergeant?"

"I think Essen might be on to something. That Elliot guy's a doctor, right? Think we ought to pay him a visit, don't'cha think?"

"What makes you think Thomas Elliot would have anything to do with this? Isn't he just like Bruce Wayne?" Montoya definitely sounded confused about that one.

"If you kept up, you'd know that trust fund baby Elliot lost his company a few weeks ago and these were the guys who helped kick him out." Bullock gestured at the room around him with its expensive furniture and—ooh, was that the liquor cabinet? Oh yeah, yeah it was. "He's no longer in charge. Don't you think something like that would piss someone off?"

"But to go as far as killing them?"

"Montoya, I've met guys who have killed for less. Being a C.E.O. and having your business taken away from you sounds like a very good reason to want to kill someone. I've been dragging my feet on this one, I'll admit it, but its time to do something about it."

He made his way over to the closed door, pulling his sleeve down over his hand so that he didn't inadvertently grab the doorknob. Before he actually did that, he paused as a thought occurred to him. "Hey Rook?"

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"You know where this Elliot guy lives?"

* * *

Montoya did know where the Elliot guy lived. Or she knew how to find the address and use the GPS they had in the squad car. Whatever, it didn't matter because right now they were in front of the Elliot estate and man was it huge.

They were blocked off by the the front gates and a long ass driveway and how much land did this guy own? There were so many trees and Bullock was having trouble spying out where the house was. Recluse, much?

Recluse or not, someone was going to answer this intercom thing sooner or later. Bullock figured if he pressed on it long enough, someone would get annoyed enough to either answer, or come out here and tell him to leave. Either way, it got him talking to someone.

"Do you think no one's home?" Montoya called out from the car.

"In a place as big as this? There's always someone home—a butler, a maid, a mistress, somebody." Bullock pressed down hard on the com button. "I ain't gonna be ignored, Rook. Especially not by some guy who inherited his money from mommy and daddy and never worked a day in his life for it."

"Sounds like you can look things up yourself. Why didn't you also look up the address?"

"Because you were looking up the address and I needed all the time I could get to make sure none of these rich bastards could get one around me. All we need is this guy to mention his lawyer and that's the end of it. You've got a lot to learn, Rook, and here's a lesson for ya: rich guys and ladies are hardly stupid and the ones that are have not-as-stupid people around them. You can't come on to them too hard, or they'll shut you down. They shut you down and you might as well be back at square one unless you picked up on something."

Before he could hear a response from his rook, the comm thing that he had been abusing came to life with a crackle. "_What is your business?_"

"This is Sergeant Bullock from the Gotham City Police Department. I need to see the guy who owns this plays. I have a few questions that only he can answer." Yep, direct approach. It was really only the approach he knew and could use.

"Very blunt, sir," Montoya piped up from the car.

Great, she was starting to get a mouth on her. She was hanging around Essen too much.

"In_ what regard is this business of yours pertaining to?_"

"Some guys he knew are turning up dead. Your boss could really help me out here." Turning back to his rook, he explained, "Gotta inflate those egos. Never go wrong with that."

As it turned out, it took a full minute of ego inflating before there was a buzz and the gate clanked open.

"About damn time," he muttered as he hurried back into the car. "Move, Rook, before they change their minds."

What came next was a driveway—a very long and winding driveway. Now he was starting to understand why he was having trouble spotting the house. It was all the way back here and why were there so many damn trees around here? It was so...so green! He came here to ask some damn questions, not get a nature tour!

Soon enough, they pulled up to the house, though house was not the best word for it. A mansion, that's what it was. A pretty damn big one too. Looked nice, he supposed. Personally he didn't give a crap what a house looked like; all of his former landlords could agree to that.

"Let me do all the talking, Rook. You take notes," Bullock instructed Montoya. "Keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

"And what would look suspicious?" Montoya asked as she shifted the gear into park.

"You're a cop now, Rook. You'll know suspicious when you see it." He opened the front passenger door and was out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him as he made his way up to the front entrance. An entrance, not a door. He didn't know any doors that were as big or as thick and decorated as the ones in front of him. Rich bastards always squandering their cash on stupid shit.

Pressing on the doorbell, he turned to Montoya and said, "From this point on, we're polite and shit. Remember, people like this get their feelings hurt very easily and that's the last thing we need. The moment he clams up, we get nothing. Let's try to do this without offending the billionaire."

"Um, Sir?" From the way his rook was looking at him, he knew that wasn't a good sign.

"He's right in front of the door, ain't he?"

"You would be correct." Somehow that door had opened without any creaking or groaning or anything—completely silent-like. Standing in the doorway was not some servant, or butler like he was expecting, but a well-built—

"Were you in some kind of accident?" Bullock couldn't help it. He was expecting some very handsome pretty boy and not, well, those were a few nasty scars he had on his face.

"Car accident. Happened some time ago." There was a tone of dismissal in the man's voice and so far he didn't seemed miffed, but that could change at the drop of a hat.

"So, er, can we come in?" the somewhat-embarrassed sergeant asked, though he was not going to admit that he was embarrassed in any way, shape, or form.

"I'll have to hear what it is you want to talk with me about so that I can make sure my feelings don't get hurt." Ouch, his own words being thrown back at him. Damn it, how was he supposed to know that he had found the only do-it-yourself, open-the-door-himself billionaire on the planet?

"There have been a rash of murders recently and they involve board members of Elliot Pharmaceuticals," Montoya spoke up, taking the lead. "We wanted to ask you some questions to see if you know of, or have any involvement with these cases."

Green eyes peered at the younger woman and Bullock felt like slapping his hand against his face. _Way to be blunt there, Rookie_. _Why not tell him how long you've been with the department while you're at it?_

"I see," Elliot said and now the police sergeant was getting a little antsy. He knew it now, the guy was going to call up his lawyer and all this time would be wasted and—

"Why don't you come inside? It's the least I can do, keeping you out here for so long," the red-haired billionaire said, stepping aside and allowing them entry.

—wha...?

"Thank you, Sir," Montoya nodded and accepted the invitation. Bullock had to blink before he realized he was following after her. He couldn't be this out of it, especially not when they were entering a proverbial lions' den where one wrong word could get them kicked out and man was this expensive.

They were just in the foyer, but you needed to be blind not to see how fancy and expensive everything was. Unlike the apartments and the Gotham Heights home, this place you could see the wealth infused in it all. More dignified even. In comparison, the other places looked downright gaudy.

He had to give a whistle at the sight. You would too if you were in his position. So this is how the other side lived.

"This way." With a gestured of his arm, acting like the perfect host, Elliot led them into what looked like a den. It reeked of money—old money, but it put the detective back into his right mind. He wasn't here to be a tourist. He had a job to do and since Montoya had gotten them this far, he'd take her lead.

"It's a nice place you got here," he started, again taking an indirect means of starting this than his more preferred direct way. The rich types and their sensitive _feelings_…

"Took generations to make it this way, but I don't think you've come all the way here to hear the long and boring history of the Elliot family." The man took a seat on a couch and waved for them to take a seat as well. "You're here on business and I am willing to cooperate as best as I can."

Trying to put them at ease, huh? He'd see about that. Still, he wouldn't ignore a chance to get off his feet.

"Yeah, you probably don't want us here any longer than you wish, so I'll do you a favor and get to the point. Some of the guys at your company have been dropping dead and we're trying to figure out why. Would you happen to know anything about it?" There, there was his direct way.

"There are a lot of people at my company, so you're going to need to be more specific than that. Who's dead, if you don't mind me asking?" All business-like this one. Did Elliot know or not know already? He already doubted the not knowing bit. Unless you didn't pick up a paper or didn't check the internet, it was all over the place that some very rich people were being murdered.

He subtly kicked Montoya's foot, hoping she would get the hint. "Quentin Spacey, Jerimiah Strong, and Bartholomew Fairman III." Thank you, Montoya. Really. With her around, he didn't need to remember any names.

"They're all on my board...former board of directors," the billionaire corrected himself.

"Why former?" the detective asked.

"Since I don't work there anymore." This was said quite bitterly, Bullock noted. "I am no longer involved with them."

"Surely guys like you keep in touch. That's your family's company, isn't it?" Almost said ain't there. Rich types and their grammar…

"My employment was not ended on mutual terms. I found out that for some time those...fine men had been trying to find out a way to relieve me of my duties," Elliot explained. "I may still own it, but already they are trying to erode my majority. As you can see, I am not broken up by the deaths of any of them."

Yeah, and that was typical of someone who was involved with such crimes.

"Why'd they can ya?" Oops, slipped up there. Forget about it, it was too late.

"A big project that didn't pan out as I hoped it would. It would have made a difference in the world, but all those men cared about was the immediate payoff. When there was a setback, they decided to cut losses and that included me. I was so upset that I ended up in a car accident in which you can see what resulted from that." The redhead gesture to his face where those nasty scars from earlier resided.

"You go to a hospital?" Bullock asked, looking closely at the scars. How recently were those things?

"Naturally. I'm a doctor so I know about the health risks of not receiving medical treatment. However, I did not wish to go to any of the fine hospitals in Gotham; the last thing I needed at the time was any kind of media hounding me. That's more for Bruce Wayne than I."

"What's the name of the hospital?" Needed that to check out his story, see if he was telling the truth.

"Bayshore Hospital in Middleton." Hope Montoya was writing that down. Sounded like he was going to be calling the place up and see if any Elliots were there at the time he was saying. Speaking of which.

"When exactly were you there and when did you get released?"

"Soon after I...lost my position. I was there for about a week. Give or take a day or two." Readily given. Either he was being honest or he was lying out his ass.

"Tell me, where have you been in the last week?" Solidifying that timeline there. Further investigation would either prove or disprove it.

"Philadelphia."

"What'cha doing in Phily?"

"Getting back to work, Sergeant. Gotham does not seem to be very friendly to me at the moment and I do need a change in scenery. Since I scared away business moguls, I might as well put my better skills to use at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. If no one needs a CEO, I'm willing to bet another surgeon would be most welcomed."

"So you're also a doctor." Something about that was important, but Bullock couldn't be sure.

"I'm also known as Dr. Thomas Elliot over at Gotham General. Not for long though, I'm planning on relocating to Philadelphia for the time being. I have found a place to stay and am in the process of figuring out what to take with me when I make the move. So far, they've been more friendly towards me in Philadelphia; I might decide to make it a move permanent move."

Yeah, yeah, and Gotham was full of pieces of shit. He got it. Right.

"What about your family business? Why leave it behind?" That wasn't his voice. Wait, that was the rook's!

"I'm not leaving it behind," Elliot replied. "I'm just distancing myself for the time being." Now what was that supposed to mean? "You see, it won't be long until I'm offered my position back in the company again." Oh, and why is that? "And when it does occur, I'll be set to move corporate headquarters to Philadelphia to better accommodate my new life."

"You sound so sure that you'll be CEO again. I thought once a CEO lost his job, he didn't become CEO of the same company again," Bullock pointed out.

"When it comes to the higher echelons of an international corporation, you'll find that its inner workings aren't as complicated as you think." Elliot scooted forward in his seat, leaning towards the two of them as if he was about to share some big secret. "You see, the management of a corporation like Elliot Pharmaceuticals is similar to that of a football team. Every once in a while, there is a change in management, to see if the team—or in this case the business—flourishes. If it does, no larger changes are made, but if it doesn't, well, the changes are discarded and there is a return to the old management. This is especially true if the old management is responsible for making everybody a ton of money. If Philip Freeman isn't up to the job, he might find himself in the unemployment line for a change."

"There doesn't sound like there was a lot of love lost between you."

"The only love that existed between us was a love for money, Sergeant. Being as unimaginative and visionless as he is, I would not be surprised if he ran _my_ family's company into the ground."

"Visionless?" What the hell did that mean?

"He lacks vision," the redhead said flippantly, like it was some sort of insult. Maybe it was for hoity-toity types. "He is unable to see opportunities that could benefit him and in turn the company. He only cares about the bottom line, the profits. He's not a person who likes to do anything new, thus while the company flounders, the people who matter—the stockholders—are going to want a change in management."

"And naturally they're going to remember you who made them all filthy rich." Wasn't hard to come to that conclusion.

"Makes perfect sense to me. Who doesn't like to be filthy rich?" That was accompanied with a shrugged as Elliot leaned back into his seat. "It's only a matter of time and I just need to play the waiting game."

Whatever. Bullock could care less about these complicated corporate takeovers, or whatever it was that the billionaire was doing. He was still going to make sure that the story he was being given was true. Airline tickets, calls to both of the hospitals, all that stuff would have to be confirmed to prove this guy wasn't in Gotham at the time of the murders.

Regardless of who it was, Bullock never believed what he was told, even at face value. People lied all the time. Records didn't. At least, so long as there were no crooked accountants nearby.

Now, call it what you will, a set of circumstances, gut instinct, a hunch, whatever, he knew that Elliot was lying to him. What about exactly, he was not completely sure of, but he knew, oh he knew, that something was being left out or covered up. Maybe it was those scars that were preventing Elliot from coming off as a likeable guy. Maybe they were showing another side of Elliot, one that he wouldn't like the public to get a good look at any time soon.

Everybody had an ugly side to them, especially the rich guys like the man sitting across from the sergeant. Even though his lips were turned upwards like it was giving them a friendly smile, there was something off about it. Something that Bullock didn't like. But just because you had an odd feeling didn't mean you were always right.

You weren't always wrong though, and when Bullock got a feeling like this, it was rare that he turned out wrong.

"Thank you for your time. Um, before we go, what was the name of that hospital you were at for that accident?"

A pause. "Bayshore Hospital. I believe that I already mentioned that it's in Middleton."

"Alright. Thanks. We'll be heading out now, but if you think of something else," Bullock handed out a slightly crumpled business card, his name and number on it, "give me a call. We can use all the help we can get, what with rich people getting killed and large, brown monsters running around."

"If I do think of something, you'll be the first to know," Elliot said as he took the card with his thumb and index finger. Looked like he didn't want to hold it. Wouldn't be the first person who acted like that towards his cards, but the way those green eyes were staring at it, it was almost like he was holding back a grimace.

"We'll let ourselves out," he told the billionaire and took the lead with Montoya on his heels. She had to kinda direct him to the front door, but once that door was closed behind them and they were halfway to the car, only then did he speak up.

"What's your take on this guy, Rook?" He kept up a blank face, wanting to hear what Montoya had to say without giving away any thoughts he might have that could change Montoya's answer.

"He seemed straightforward and forthcoming with his answers," his rook answered.

"I'm sensing a 'but' there."

"It seemed too...I don't know what the word is. It was like it clicked together too perfectly," Montoya struggled to explain herself.

"Like it's too good to be true?" he suggested.

"Yeah. That," she agreed. "Did you notice how he changed? When he was talking about his company? There was...something else, something...dark."

"He's hiding something, even if some of the things he told us were the truth. He's omitting something, or he's flat out lying. Either way, I want to see what that Bayshore place has to say and then what Phily has going on with it. Let's this stick with you, Montoya: never trust a person's statement unless you have hard evidence backing it up.

"Now let's get the hell out of here. Is it just me or does this place give you the creeps?"


	21. Judge of Character

It seemed taking a few days off wasn't the best of ideas.

Quentin Spacey, killed in his apartment, his intestines removed and baked in his oven. Jeremiah Strong, killed in his house at Gotham Heights, his liver removed and still missing. Now Bartholomew Fairman III found dead in his apartment, both of his kidneys removed and also unaccounted for.

Bruce had copies of the GCPD casefiles lying on the computer console, each open and showing the coroner's report and pictures of the bodies found at their respective crime scenes. He had met each man in passing at various dinner parties, yet he wouldn't go so far as to say they were friends. Acquaintances at best, if you considered they ran in the same circles.

So far the police hadn't determine a person-of-interest, though there was a rather noticeable observation mentioned. Each man currently served on the Elliot Pharmaceuticals board of directors; that was one common link between them. Another, which was not mentioned in the reports, was that each man had cast a vote to remove Tommy Elliot as CEO of the company. However, according to an interview by Bullock of all people, Tommy had been in Philadelphia during these murders with corroborating witnesses. That at least removed his old friend from suspicion.

_You're not sorry, Wayne. Not yet._

To say that he and Tommy had parted on less than ideal circumstances would be accurate. In fact, he hadn't heard from his friend since he stormed out of Wayne Enterprises. Bruce was sad to say he hadn't been paying much attention to his friend, but that tended to happen when a psychopathic midget began killing mob bosses.

Still, that connection was there and the vigilante would be foolish to ignore it. The police may have ended their suspicions of Tommy, but the dark-haired man had a much higher standard that needed to be met before he removed a suspect.

As he shifted in his chair, Bruce grimaced. His ribs were still mending, which made some movements rather uncomfortable. There hadn't been much change in the throbbing aches between his leaving and returning to Gotham. The only positive was that he hadn't done anything to exacerbate them, which was something Alfred considered a positive.

Unfortunately, the dark-haired man was questioning the timing of his trip more and more. He was neck-deep in gang wars between Cobblepot and everyone that wasn't on his side, these murders of wealthy Gothamites, and lastly the plans of the mysterious Hush. His obligations be damned, now wasn't the time to take a break. It hadn't been three days ago and it wasn't most definitely now.

Soft footsteps alerted the man to Alfred's approach. "Master Bruce," the older man greeted him.

Bruce nodded his head, not looking at the butler. Instead he raised a few pages of a report in Strong's file. There was some meaning going on with the removal of organs, yet the message was escaping him. Why else would someone go through the trouble of cutting up a body and removing internal organs? Were they trophies? A message? What?

Alfred seemed content to allow the silence to go on as the younger man pondered this line of thinking, but eventually he ended up breaking the moment. "Sir, you do realize it is nearly five in the morning."

"Is it?" Bruce grunted back as he flipped another page.

"It is indeed." There was a crinkling of paper, which caused Bruce to frown. "The morning paper has arrived."

"That can wait," he brushed off.

"I believe you should see it, Master Bruce."

Frowning, the billionaire looked up from the report, turning towards the butler. In the older man's hands was the front page of the Gotham Gazette, a picture of Gordon walking down steps with a couple of men dressed in suits. In bold letters above the picture it proudly proclaimed: **COMMISSIONER ON TRIAL**.

"What in blazes..." Bruce trailed off as he snatched the newspaper from Alfred and began reading it. "Hearing on alleged bribery charges and...criminal activity?" He could hardly believe it. Tying Gordon's name and being a criminal together seemed wrong somehow. He continued reading out loud, "Allegations stemming from connection to Batman. Hearing before city council in a couple days." He lowered the newspaper and looked to his butler. Alfred returned the look stoically.

"Something's not right." Tossing the paper onto the police files, he began typing on the keyboard, the screen lighting up with activity. Windows popped up, revealing information on the commissioner that he had collected long ago. "I personally looked into Gordon. Most damning thing he had were parking and speeding tickets."

"If I may be so bold, Sir, is it possible that the commissioner is capable of keeping his secrets secret?"

"Of course, but there's nothing in his records that indicate that sort of behavior. If anything, he wouldn't have just been a police sergeant for eight years if that were the case. People that can cover their tracks effectively typically have greater ambition than that. Under Loeb, he would've flourished, not rot away in the same job."

"Perhaps the commissioner realized that character flaw and merely chose to wait. After all, the article does mention photos indicating a close relationship with the former mayor, Hill."

Bruce froze at that. Alfred did make a good argument. Yet in all of his dealings with Gordon, he never came under the impression the man would use such underhanded tactics. He held honesty in himself and the people around him highly, yet was smart enough to know when and if he could bring pressure. Working under someone as corrupt as Loeb taught a man when to stick his neck out, if ever.

But what if Gordon was as sly as Alfred pointed out? It meant that the dark-haired man's judgement of character was flawed and needed a rapid overhaul to correct. His fingers stilled over the keyboard as he consider that thought.

"I believe I need to reinvestigate James Gordon," Bruce finally said, returning to work.

"Having a moment of regret, Sir?" Alfred asked.

"More like calling into question my own judgement. Gordon is either exactly who I think he is, or he's a much better actor than I gave him credit for." At this, Bruce's face hardened. "Either way, I'm going to find out."

* * *

Vikki glared at her television screen. It was currently off, so she was looking at a dull reflection of herself sitting on her couch.

Glancing at the telephone, she stared at it as if it offended her. In fact, it was. Bruce Wayne was back in town and he had yet to call her. The damning silence of the electronic device further infuriated her.

The redhead could understand that business took precedence over pleasure. She had had many a deadline where she ignored the world in order to make it, so when Bruce mentioned his obligations to his company, though she was annoyed by it, she understood. However, he said he would call her when he got back and considering that the...ahem...gossip section of the Gotham Star had been riled up about his return yesterday, she figured she would have been one of the first calls he made.

That was currently not the case.

After all of the things she did for him, this is what he did to her. When Bruce was beaten low by every newspaper and media source in the city, she had been there to rebuild his reputation. When he needed help exposing Elliot Pharmaceuticals for their role in the Hagan incident, she was the one that investigated and revealed their evil doings. It was her, it was her! And Bruce Wayne repaid her with silence!

Vikki tore her gaze away from the phone and went back to the television. Why wasn't he calling her? It was well known that the billionaire was allergic to work; he did everything he could to avoid it. So what if he had some out-of-town business meeting, it shouldn't stop him from calling her. Who did he think she was anyway? One of those empty-headed airheads that hung themselves off his arms? Lois Lane? Some woman he could wine and dine and then cast off as if she meant nothing? Like Lane? Hell no! She was Vikki Vale, the number one reporter in the city. That meant something in this town.

The redhead growled. Well then, if he thought he could ignore her, he had another thing coming. She was going to call him and pin him down. They were not finished with one another and she would be damned if he thought he could toss her away like any of the other women he had bedded and turned his nose up at. They had yet to even reach that part!

Snatching up her phone, she dialed in the number for Wayne Manor. It was a well-known number amongst reporters, especially the rookies. When you wanted to make it big in Gotham, you burned up the phone lines to get an interview with Bruce Wayne. If he took a liking to you, you could expect good things to happen to you. She faintly remembered calling the number once every hour for as long as she was awake. Didn't work out for her, but she knew some other, more fortunate ladies that it did.

With the number in, she held the phone receiver to her ear and listened as the familiar ring buzzed. It rang three times, each one shortening the already short fuse she had on her temper. At the end of the third, she heard a click as someone on the other end answered. "_You have reached Wayne Manor,_" a British voice said.

"This is Vikki Vale, Gotham Star," Vikki immediately introduced herself. "I'd like to speak with Bruce Wayne."

"_I apologize, but Master Wayne is indisposed of at the moment. Would you like me to relay a message to him?_"

The redhead bared her teeth. Oh hell no, she was _not_ going to be relegated to the land of lost messages and voicemails. "You can get me Bruce right now. He said he would call me once he got back from his little vacation and he has yet to call."

She could hear the disapproval in the British man's voice as he said, "_The Master is not available at the moment, Miss, and I believe he will be sufficiently occupied for the near future. If you need to get a hold of him, you may try again later, or schedule an appointment with his secre_—"

Vikki had had it. "No, I will not make an appointment, just for him to cancel on me."

"_Contrary to popular belief, Master Bruce does keep his appointments._"

Oh really? Like all of those mayor luncheons he kept canceling? Right in front of her, she might add. If Bruce Wayne would cancel on the mayor of all people, then he would do so on a reporter, no question. "I'm sure he does," she replied with venom in her voice.

"_If that is all, I will inform Master Wayne of your call. I bid you good day, Miss Vale._"

"Wait! Wait just a second," Vikki cried out. "Just...tell Bruce that he needs to call me. Like now. He and I need to discuss another article."

"_Very good, Miss, I will relay the message._"

"Thank you."

And with that, the butler hung up the phone, the annoying dial tone blaring into Vikki's ear. With a scowl, the redhead slammed the phone down and nearly shrieked. She knew it. She freaking knew it! Bruce was avoiding her!

That empty-headed billionaire was wrong if he thought he was done with her though. They would be done when she said they were and not a moment before. If he couldn't appreciate all the good works she had done for him, then he could most certainly expect the worst. By the time she was done with him, Wayne Enterprises would be right back where it started before she came to save its ass—no, it would be worse!

A vindictive smirk appeared on Vikki's face. Oh yes, Bruce Wayne had chosen the wrong woman to anger.

* * *

It was too stuffy inside, Gordon told himself, and no, he was not gripping the pack of cigarettes that were in his left coat pocket. He just needed to get some fresh air and clear his head. That was all. He was by no means going up to the roof to have a...oh, who the hell was he kidding?

It would be obvious to a ten year old that he was going to have a smoke. He could see the expression of disappointment on Barbara's face, but that wasn't enough to stop him from going ahead with it. Whoever had discovered nicotine should have been locked away for one of those U.N. crimes—crimes against humanity, he thought the name was. Addictive as crap and a habit hard as hell to break.

Couldn't blame anyone other than himself for it, just like this situation with Forbes. The only plus side was with this Forbes fiasco was that he could still blame Vikki Vale for getting him into it in the first place. God damn it, he hated reporters.

There was no gentleness as he shoved the door to the roof open and stomped his way out. Not looking back to see if the door closed behind him, Gordon stared straight ahead for a moment, oblivious to the city before him. His grip tightening on his pack of cigarettes, he spun on his heel and headed to his usual place by the air conditioners; that left him out of sight and able to compose himself before anyone came looking for him.

It was becoming his spot now, he mused. A place all for him to be by himself and try to rebuild any of his mental defenses that were worn away by the simple task of being commissioner. It was a place no friend or enemy could find him. The commissioner didn't have to worry about the world intruding on him as he collected himself, getting ready for the next hits that were undoubtedly coming from him.

Pulling out the pack, he helped himself to a cigarette, flicking on his lighter and lighting up the cancer stick. The rush of nicotine into his lungs was familiar, welcomed yet unwelcomed, soothing and calming to his nerves. He exhaled, letting the smoke steam out from his nose.

_Much better._

A small stream of smoke from the cigarette trailed up into the air, but he ignored it in favor of his calming nerves. He took another inhale, shooting the smoke from his mouth this time.

Gordon really needed a break like this, one where he was by himself and undisturbed from all the gossip going around the department. As if it hadn't been hard before, now the whispered rumors of corruption were flying around, gumming up the works that he had tried so hard to clean. He didn't blame them, but it was annoying to hear the whispers and have them stop once his presence was detected.

This wasn't high school anymore, yet it was hard to tell the difference between the two at times.

Gordon paused as he could have sworn he heard the sound of something flapping and...this spot wasn't as private as he thought.

Belatedly, he recalled that this spot was the same exact one that he…

"Here to look into me too?" he spoke aloud, not needing to ask who it was. He already knew who it was.

There was a moment of silence before he heard that familiar gravelly voice, "Should I be?"

"You wouldn't be here unless that's what you were doing." He took another drag on his cigarette. "Can't say that I blame you either."

"Who says I haven't already?"

"Then why are you here?" He glanced up at the caped vigilante for the first time that night, not surprised to see those blank, white eyes boring into him. "I doubt it's a social call."

"Spacey, Strong, and Fairman."

"Now why are you interested in those? All the talk so far has been about me."

"Because there are three dead men and they deserve to have their killer brought to justice." There was a pause. "Besides, I wouldn't be talking to you if I thought you were guilty."

"At least I have one person on my side. Fine, so far all we have is three dead men who all work at the same place with some of their organs missing and parts of their face skinned off. We've only found the intestines of one of the men and that's because they were being cooked in the oven. There's a theory the killer might be a cannibal and is taking the organs to...you know."

"But you don't believe that."

"It makes sense, but why mess up the faces and why take different organs each time?" He took another drag from his cigarette. "The organs might be taken just to throw us off. Or maybe the killer is trying to tell us something, as gruesome as his message may be."

"Connections between the three victims?"

"Only Elliot Pharmaceuticals where they are all board members. They're all rich and all three have made a lot of enemies to get where they were. So far the most recent enemy would have been the former C.E.O., Thomas Elliot."

"Because of his removal from the company."

"Bullock went over there, to the Elliot estate, and questioned him. It was surprising he didn't ask for a lawyer and so far his story is checking out. A hospital visit soon after his dismissal, frequent trips to Philadelphia, it all checks out. We're starting on his staff, the ones at his home and so far we're getting reports of a big move west to Philadelphia, so Gotham is losing one of its favorite sons soon. We're going to have to mark him off the suspect list soon."

The Batman remained silent.

"There is something that bothers me, though. I don't know if it will mean anything to you, but I saw something in the autopsy report. Where the victims were cut open, they were in places where a surgeon would operate on. There wasn't any precision in the cuts, but where the incisions were made and how, they're similar to surgeries. And they were all alive when these cuts were made."

Finally the vigilante said, "I'll take a closer look."

Gordon nodded his head. He figured as much. Bringing his cigarette up, he took another drag.

And then something surprising happen. "I'm sorry about this, Gordon. All of it."

The older man waved it off. "I put myself here. You don't have to apologize for it. You saved my daughter's life and that's all that matters to me. If the same thing happened tomorrow, I'd do it again."

The two of them fell silent then. Gordon found it comfortable, perhaps the first comfortable moment he had in a long time. However, since the two of them were having the closest thing to a heart-to-heart, he had something he needed to get off his chest.

"She has a crush on you, you know," he spoke. He wasn't sure if the Bat was still here or not, but he didn't bother to look, instead choosing to gaze out over the city. "You're all she's been able to think about since then. She thinks I haven't noticed how she's suddenly visiting the station more and more and always finds a reason to go up onto the roof."

Gordon let out a sigh. "I thought you should know, since you saved her. To know what's going on with someone you saved."

When he heard no response, he knew he was alone. That all changed when he heard, "Thank you."

The commissioner jerked his head towards the vigilante, finding him still perched on the A/C unit. It was surprising to say the least. It took him a moment to recover, but when he did, he added, "I can't say I'm too thrilled about it, but I suppose it could be worse. She could actually like one of the boys from her school."

Gordon chuckled then. "I guess I won't have to worry about that happening."

There was a pregnant pause, one that as comfortable as the previous one. It ended when the Batman said, "If anything happens, I'll look after her."

"Hopefully it won't come to that. I plan to stick around and embarrass her around her friends for years to come—unless Forbes gets his way. I swear that man has something against me." He flicked away his cigarette, no long in the mood for it. If he needed to, he could light another one even if it would make Barbara even more disappointed in him.

"He probably does."

"It would be nice to know what it is." The older man snorted. "Knowing him from what 'little' interaction I've had with him, he probably wouldn't give it up anyway. Sometimes I think he would have been better off born as a bulldog. His looks wouldn't change either way."

He shook his head as the image of a hybrid Forbes combined with a bulldog overtook all his thoughts. Actually he was uglier than he thought.

When he didn't receive a response, he looked to the A/C unit and wasn't surprised to find the vigilante gone. That was a first, the lack of surprise. If this was their last meeting, he found he could live with it. It was a nice feeling to have.

Stepping away from the A/C units, he made his way back to the roof entrance where he found, shock and surprise, a certain someone nosing around.

"Looking for me again?" he called out to the small form of his daughter, who jumped and looked up at him almost guiltily. He already knew why she was up here and for whom. For now it was cute, but as she got older, hopefully she'd grow out of it.

"Oh! Er, yeah, I was! Where were you?" the girl picked up on his prompt quickly, but it was obvious that she wasn't telling the truth. He'd let her think she had him fooled, otherwise she might become a better liar.

"Making sure my daughter didn't get into any trouble up here. There's a lot of important equipment up here." He placed a hand on the smaller shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Right, there's a lot of important things up here," Barbara deadpanned. "There's a huge space over there with nothing on it. Is there air there so important that you can't risk anyone breathing it?"

"And when did you get so sarcastic? I don't remember teaching you that." Gordon began steering her towards the door. "Have you been spending too much time with your mother?"

"You know the answer to that," the girl answered sourly. Whether it was for the fact that she did not want to talk about that subject, or that she wasn't going to be seeing her little crush this night, he didn't know and wasn't going to press further into it.

He had a lot of other things on his plate.


	22. Elliot Manor

The Elliot Manor was a familiar place to Bruce Wayne. As a child, he had spent many a day roaming its halls, playing with Tommy as they got into child-like mischief. Those had been good days for him, even after the murder of his parents. So when Batman arrived at the large mansion's steps, it was like he was stepping into a home he hadn't been in for years, if not decades.

There weren't any lights on in the building, not that the vigilante expected any. Tommy had left earlier in the day to head back to Philadelphia, determined to forget Gotham and all of its miseries. He honestly couldn't blame him, but then there was a part of the Batman that felt his friend was fleeing his own problems, leaving others to clean them up in his wake.

But then, not everyone used their own tragedies to fuel their desire to prevent others just like it.

It wouldn't do for the vigilante to simply use the front door, however. Instead he went to the servant's entrance in the back. He and Tommy used to use that door as their escape route when their parents had wanted to bore them to death with tedious adult visits, or at least that's how the two of them saw it. Why waste a perfectly good afternoon inside drinking tea and lemonade and gossiping when you could play hide-n-seek, ride horses, climb trees, and wrestle in the mud? The nostalgia was really getting to him.

With his lock pick, he delicately inserted it into the keyhole, jiggling it around until he found the locking pin. With a slight twitch of his fingers, the pin was pushed to a side and the door was unlocked. Opening the door, he swept through the doorway like a wraith, the door closing gently behind him.

The corridors were dark, just as he expected them to be. The only exception was a small white keypad on the wall to his left, its screen glowing green—Tommy's security system. On the screen were five dashes, indicating each number of Tommy's security code. In a corner of the screen, he could see a digital countdown that would sound off the system's silent alarm. Raising a hand, he punched in the security code, each dash having an asterisk appear above it. Hitting the enter button, the countdown ended, the word ACCEPTED flashing across the screen.

Turning his attention away from the security console, Batman began making his way through the mansion. Despite the darkness, he knew exactly where he was and where he was going. Tommy was a highly-organized individual; he liked keeping his work and social life separate, compartmentalizing everything into their own rooms. His office would be the most logical place for him to have any potential link between him and his murdered board members, or at the very least a lead to who would want these specific men killed. A business venture gone bad, a hostile takeover, anything.

Entering the living room, the silence of the room caused the vigilante to pause. Standing at the threshold of the living room, he scanned it for something, anything that was different or out of place. It wasn't until he noticed an empty portion of one of the walls that he realized just what was missing. The old grandfather clock was gone. Though missing, his mind was recreating that incessant tick-tocking it would make. It was always there in the background when the two played in this room. While they couldn't wrestle or do what little boys did, they did play chess with each other and this was where they usually played it. It seemed wrong not to hear that chiming.

Though Tommy was in the midsts of moving out of the Manor, the fact that all the furniture, save the clock, was still here made him wary. Like a red flag raising in his mind, he felt something was off. If Tommy were moving his possessions out of this room, he would have done more than just move one clock; it would have been the sofas, the chairs, the coffee table, the paintings that hung on the walls, something more than just one piece of furniture.

However, one missing grandfather clock was not exactly evidence that something was up. Perhaps it needed repair, or maybe it was sold off. It had been a long time since Batman had been in this room. Yet, he felt Tommy would've told him that he gotten rid of it.

Hardening his expression, the Batman left the room, heading down another hallway. It wasn't long until he came across the room he was searching for: Tommy's office. Opening the door, he step through the doorway and began taking in the room.

Just as he expected, Tommy was neat to a fault. The desk was situated across the room from him with a couple filing cabinets placed near it. There was even a small table with a printer sitting on top of it on the opposite side of the desk from the cabinets. A couple large chairs were stationed in front of the desk. Along the wall was a small cart with various liquors on it, four small glasses arranged on top of it at the ready for when Tommy brought guests back here.

Making his way to the desk, he walked around it, taking note that there was nothing of consequence on top of the desk—only a large desk calendar with a few appointments marked on it. Reaching to his belt, he pulled out a small flashlight and clicked it on, aiming the light at the calendar. From what he could see, they concerned meeting with a moving company and a trip to Philadelphia. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Reaching down, the vigilante opened one of the drawers and began digging through it. Looked like office supplies, such as boxes of staples, paper clips, pens, and the like. Closing it, he opened another drawer, seeing similar contents. It was the next drawer that caught his interest. This one was filled with folders, some of which were in use. Kneeling down, he pulled one up and opened it, finding it full of bank statements on his accounts. The rest of the folders were of the same, providing information on Tommy's other accounts. Still, he scanned through them, finding nothing incriminating.

Shutting that drawer, Batman then turned to the filing cabinets. Opening the top drawer, this time he found more files. Once more, he looked into the folders, again finding nothing linking Tommy to his board members. Every single file cabinet drawer provided the same results, exasperating and relieving the vigilante at the same time—the former for wondering if this was a pointless exercise and the latter for ruling his friend out as a suspect. As a friend, he wanted Tommy to be uninvolved in this murder spree; yet as a detective, he had to find evidence of the redhead's innocence. Just because they were friends did not mean the other was beyond reproach.

Closing the cabinets, he returned to the desk. His gaze soon wandered over to the small table with the printer. Well, to say it was a table was inaccurate. It was more like an extension piece of the desk, which was currently acting as a place for the printer to sit.

As the light of his flashlight passed over it, Batman suddenly stopped. Holding the light right on the table, he noticed a crease emerging from beneath the printer, making a sharp ninety degree angle to the right. The crease would make another such turn, this time heading further down the table. Setting the flashlight down on the desk, the dark-clad vigilante picked up the printer and placed it down on the floor. Picking up the flashlight again, he then ran his other hand along the crease, finding that there was a thin gap. In fact, the crease formed a square in the center of the desk.

Dragging his finger tips across the surface, he then stopped in the middle of the square and rested the palm of his hand right on it. Pushing down, the square dropped down and slid to a side, causing Batman to withdraw his hand the moment it started to slide. What he found was a hidden compartment, two thick folders resting in it. Stoically, he reached in and picked up the files, placing it on the desk.

When he opened one of them, his calm demeanor disappeared as he began to frown. A few pictures immediately met his gazes, the first of which was one of Hamilton Hill. The former mayor was leaning towards his left, Batman's right, a smile on his face and looking as if he were telling someone a funny anecdote. The picture beneath that was one of Gordon, leaning back in a chair in his usual dress shirt and trenchcoat. Batman wasn't sure of where the picture was taken, but from Gordon's posture it was somewhere he was comfortable at. Scanning the other pictures, he found them to be the same, all of them with Hill or Gordon in them.

However, when he opened the other folder, his mood darkened. There was a picture that greeted him here as well; however, this one had both Hill and Gordon, in the same poses as the first two pictures, but this time they were right next to each other. It was a very good photoshop job, professionally done. Further comparison showed that the second file had pictures of both men in them, all of their stances and poses taken from their separate photos and strategically placed in these.

Moving the pictures aside, he then looked at the documents beneath them. In the first file Batman saw bank statements, ones that belonged to Gordon. The vigilante recognized them instantly as they were the ones he looked into during his recent background check of the commissioner. There was nothing out of the ordinary there and on the next few sheets. However, when he compared them to the ones in the second file, he noticed the same information on them, except new entries had been added. Looking at the new entries, he quickly figured out they went back all the way until a couple months after his first patrols as Batman. Studying the dates, he began placing them in his head. From what he could tell, they were the dates the GCPD had made significant headway on various high-profile cases. In fact, he was the reason any progress was made on those cases.

A scowl appeared on Batman's face. Why the hell did Tommy Elliot have two file, one of which implicated Jim Gordon in acts of corruption? In fact, it looked as if he had made them. Was it possible that this was the evidence Forbes had in his possession?

Batman glared down at the files. In his mission to find a murder link, he instead found a rabbit hole and it was taking him to a different place altogether. While he still hadn't found anything to prove Tommy's connection, he definitely had something that indicated he wasn't entirely innocent of other crimes. Closing the folder, they disappeared beneath his cape for safe keeping. Gordon's lawyer was going to want to see these.

Closing the compartment, he placed the printer back on it and picked up his flashlight, making another sweep of the room with the beam. Seeing nothing, Batman began walking towards the door, clicking off the flashlight and sticking it back in his belt.

Just as he left the office, he stopped again. Across the hall was another door, this one open ajar. It struck him as odd considering all the other doors had been closed shut. Pulling out the flashlight again, he took a step to the door and pulled it open. Clicking on the light, he then pointed it into the room and the first thing that greeted him was a toilet.

So it was just the bathroom. Scanning the rest of the room, his attention soon focused on the sink. A mess of bandages were stuffed into it, a first aid kit sitting nearby with its lid open. A look to the kit told him the bandage rolls were missing. Looking back to the sink, he stared at the used bandages for a moment before looking for the trashcan. When he found it, he saw it too was stuffed with bandages.

An image of Hush flashed into his mind. Batman's mind quickly compared Hush and Tommy's body types and measurements. They were roughly the same height, possibly the same weight, though that was debatable considering Hush wore a trenchcoat that made estimating his size and weight difficult. It still wasn't out of the realm of possibility though.

To play devil's advocate though, why would Tommy need to use so many bandages? The GCPD interview didn't indicate he was injured aside from some old scars. So assuming these bandages were the ones he received at the hospital, there's no way they should still be here. There had been more than enough time for one of the maid staff to have taken out the garbage. That brought him to the unpalatable conclusion that these had been recently used.

_Dear Lord, Tommy, what have you gotten yourself into?_

A sigh escaped his lips. He needed to see Tommy as soon as he could. Unfortunately it would be in the guise of the Batman rather than Bruce Wayne. As he turned to the door, a thought occurred to him. The bathroom door had been opened when he came out of the office; yet he didn't recall it being open when he first reached the office, which meant someone else had been in here and had left while he was occupied with his investigation.

A shuriken was in his right hand in an instant, held up by his head. Cautiously, he pushed open the door and took a step out.

The sound of a hammer cocking back halted him in his tracks. From the corner of his left eye, he saw the barrel of a M1911 pointing right at him. "You're in my house," the whispered voice of Hush accused.

"Thomas Elliot," Batman growled back.

As if to prove him correctly, the hushed voice was replaced with Elliot's stern one. "So you've figured it out."

Anger began to well up inside Batman. He hadn't wanted to believe it, but this confirmed everything. Rage, betrayal, all of that warred inside of him.

"Now drop your weapon. Do it, or I put a bullet right through your pointed, little ears."

The vigilante held his stance for a second before he relaxed his fingers, letting go of the bat-shaped shuriken. It made a _thunk_ once it hit the floor. Elliot showed no indication he was pleased by this. "Now then, let's go into my office. I'm sure you're familiar with it since you were digging around in it only a minute ago."

Batman slowly straightened out his posture, his cape sliding down his arms as the cloth began to envelope his body. "Upp, upp, upp, not your hands," Elliot immediately warned. "Keep them where I can see them."

He did as told, but kept turned his body as he moved to the office door. No way was he going to turn his back on this man, especially with those files nestled there. A bullet to his back would have damaged them and he couldn't let that happen. Since the door was open, he moved into the office, his body still turning until his back faced the desk, his front towards Elliot and the door.

Elliot also entered the room, gun trained on him. It was then the vigilante noticed the laptop computer the other man held against his side. "Now then, why don't you tell me what you were looking for. Find something I should know about?"

Batman responded with silence, eyes trained on the other man.

"The silent treatment," the bandaged man quipped. A slight smirk appeared on his face. "Standing here, I can see why it's so effective. The dark costume, the blank eyes—you've really considered everything when creating this bat persona of yours. I applaud your effort. For that, I'll leave that question for later. Instead, tell me who you are. Who is the man behind the bat?"

Batman resisted the urge to roll his eyes. That was a bad pun, even for Elliot. Was that all anyone could think of? He had been at this for over a year, you would have thought someone would have thought of something else to ask him.

"My name is of little consequence to you," he quoted instead, a sense of satisfaction surging in him as he observed Elliot narrowing his eyes.

"So that's the way you wish to play this. I thought I was being generous by offering you another question. I see that my olive branch, so to speak, was not accepted. I suppose if I want the answer to this question, I should shoot you where you stand and rip off that horrid mask of yours. Would you prefer that instead?"

Batman subconsciously took a step back, the back of his leg coming into contact with the desk. At this distance, there was no amount of extra space he could put between them that would stop a bullet from ripping right through him, or more preferable smashing against his armor. Regardless, he would be hit the moment Elliot fired. As if to add insult to injury, his balance was thrown off by his collision with the desk, causing him to reach out with his right hand to rest on top of it.

That action seemed to please Elliot. "Steady there, wouldn't want you to trip and fall."

Batman ignored the taunt. As he began to push himself up, the fingers of his hand brushed up against something, causing him to still. He immediately began searching his memory for what it could be, a plan beginning to form in his head. "You're in over your head, Elliot."

The bandaged man looked disappointed at that remark. "You know, now isn't the time to be insulting the man that's holding a gun at your head. I thought you would have already known that, a man of your intellect. Tonight seems to be a night of revelation, it seems."

"Found another piece for your puzzle?" Batman asked.

"Perhaps," Elliot replied slyly. "Though it's nothing I haven't already learned."

"It must be boring then, to be always be ahead of everyone else." Even from where he stood, the vigilante could see his appeals to Elliot's ego were working.

"Well, I do have to admit it does get boring watching everyone floundering behind me."

"That's what happens when you're always six steps ahead."

That caused the bandaged man to freeze. Almost distractedly, he asked, "What did you say?"

_Now!_ Batman grabbed what he knew was the stapler and whipped his arm forward, sending the stapler flying at Elliot. The man's eyes widened as he dodged to a side. In that moment, Batman was on him, launching himself through the air and crashing into him. He had his right arm up and forced his foe's gun to the side, his other hand grabbing onto Elliot's coat as they fell to the floor.

The moment they landed, Batman forced his opponent's gun arm down, slamming it onto the floor. The sudden move caused Elliot's hand to spasm, the gun falling from his grasp. Holding himself over Elliot with his other arm, the vigilante brought up his right arm and slammed his fist into the man's face. Elliot's head snapped to a side as spit flew out of his mouth.

Bringing the same fist back up, he sent it flying down again, landing another punch to Elliot's face, just as he was turning his head back to face him.

It was then that Elliot fought back. Letting go of his laptop, he sent his own fist flying at Batman, just as the vigilante drew back his hand for another blow. The bandaged man nailed Batman in the face, forcing his head to a side. The next thing the dark-clad man knew, his foe snaked his arms around his neck and twisted his body to a side. This caused them to roll over, with Batman's back on the floor and Elliot on top of him.

Instantly, Batman's training kicked in. With his legs, he wrapped them around Elliot's waist, surprising the man. Leaning back, the bandaged man pressed his hands against the vigilante's thighs, trying to push them off of him.

This was a mistake. Shooting his hands out, Batman grabbed onto Elliot's coat and pulled the man down while at the same time he hauled himself up. Batman's forehead slammed into his opponent's nose, the satisfying sound of snapping cartilage filling his ears. As he pulled his head back, he could see the white bandages turning red around Elliot's nose, his face twisted in pain as he let out a cry.

Releasing his hold, Elliot leaned back away from the vigilante as his hand flew up to hold his face. Rolling further up his back, Batman tucked his legs in, his knees touching his chest as his feet pressed into Elliot's torso. With all the force he could muster, Batman kicked out his legs, pushing his opponent away as the man fell onto his back.

Rolling forward, Batman was back on his feet, crouched on the floor. Pushing off he jumped into the air, letting out a war cry as he landed back on top of Elliot, another punch connecting with the bandaged man face. Pulling back, he sent his other fist into the other man's face, snapping his head to the other side.

It was then a sharp pain erupted in Batman's left arm. Hissing, he turned his head to his left and found a thin piece of metal sticking out of his arm. It was right in between the armored plating, which was the only way it could have hurt him. Instinctively, he reached for to pull it out.

That proved to be a mistake as Elliot landed a heavy blow to the side of his head. He wasn't sure what it was, but the hit knocked him off the bandaged man and onto the floor, sending a sharp, screaming pain through his arm.

Rolling off his arm, he saw Elliot on his feet and racing out of the room. Baring his teeth, Batman forced himself onto his feet, pausing long enough to pull out the piece of metal in his arm. He was slightly surprised to find it to be a scalpel, adding the medical instrument's sharpness as a factor to how it pierced his suit. Flinging it onto the floor, he made to chase Elliot when he noticed the man's laptop lying on the floor.

Batman hesitated for a moment before he picked up the computer and then went charging into the hall. There was no sign of the other man, but the vigilante didn't have to know where he was. He already knew where Elliot was going.

Racing through the corridors, he ran towards the manor's garage. Elliot had to have a car or two in there he could use to escape. The dark-clad man dashed down familiar hallways and rooms until he entered the kitchen, the room just before the garage. The doorway to it was blocked by the door as he barreled towards it, intent on smashing right through it. Faintly he wondered if he needed to apologize to Elliot's butler about the mess he was about to make. It was an odd thought to have in the middle of a chase, but he couldn't help himself. Elliot's butler had been obsessive in keeping the kitchen clean, wiping it down daily with lemon-scented disinfectant. Even now he could smell the lemony smell along with the gas—

Wait...gas?

Slowing to a stop, Batman looked about the kitchen and immediately caught sight of the gas main. One of the hoses had been pulled out and noxious gas was spewing out. The next thing to get the vigilante's attention was that one of the stoves was one, its blue flames covering the burner.

_Goddamn it._

Instantly, Batman shot back into the hallway. At the far end was a window and he charged at it. At the last second, it leapt into the air, bringing his knees up to his chest before shooting them out in front of him. The glass shattered on impact just as he heard a boom behind him. A moment later, he could feel scorching heat as the house behind him exploded, fire and burning wood slamming into him.

With a cry, the force of the blast sent him flying through the air. Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward, tucking his legs in as he began to flip head over feet. Once he had control, he felt his body beginning to fall. Straightening out his body, he quickly activated the electric current in his gauntlet and grabbed his cape, feeling it stiffen instantly. His fall came to a quick end as he glided down to the ground, landing on his feet roughly.

Steeling his face, he turned around to look at the burning remains of the Elliot Manor. The blaze lit up the night's sky, chasing away the darkness that surrounded it. Elliot was long gone by now, so Batman felt he had to watch the fire in his stead. It was the least he could do for an old friend, one he couldn't recognize anymore.


	23. Hearing

"_...must have been a loud boom because everybody's talking about it. If you haven't heard yet, last night the home of Thomas Elliot, former CEO of Elliot Pharmaceuticals, went up in flames last night and I am not kidding, everyone within a three mile radius heard an explosion. The place is nothing but ashes right now, but fortunately the doc is all right. Wasn't home that night so yeah, that was a close one. Almost lost one of Gotham's most eligible bachelors, so ladies, breath easy that that's not the case._

"_Anyway_,_ for those of you who've been living under a rock for the past few weeks, today is the day where the hearing into the corruption charges against Commissioner James Gordon begins and_—"

The radio was quickly shut off as Gordon sat in his car near the courthouse. Today was the day when his future was decided. Would he lose his job and face time over at Blackgate, or was there the slim possibility that he could get out of this with the minimal amount of damage? The fact there was a bunch of people, a bunch of powerful people he corrected, who would love nothing more than to put him away was not a comforting thought.

The Mayor was not with him, many in the department who stood to gain his job were drooling for the chance of getting rid of him, and last but not least, Forbes. He didn't need to go into any detail on that one, only the name was required.

He felt like he was about to be placed on some old, stone alter and sacrificed to an ancient god as a tribute. For what, nothing came to mind, but that didn't make it any easier. His lawyers was probably waiting for him inside and it was best not to keep them waiting. Even though he found himself at odds with the union, they came through this time around. The commissioner had no doubt he wasn't getting the A team, but he'd settle for the B team any time. Better than getting the worst they had.

Pushing open the door to his car, removing his keys from the ignition as he did so, Gordon stepped out onto the sidewalk and the bright sun that hovered overhead. It was a nice, bright, and sunshiny day today. He heard that from a song somewhere, but what it was called, again he had trouble recalling.

The walk to the courthouse was the complete opposite of the weather. Dark, gloomy, downtrodden perhaps. He wasn't in the mood for being cheerful, not when today could mark the end for him.

But he would face it head on. He was not going to show any of them any sign of weakness. He'd accept the consequences no matter what they were. He'd show no distress, giving a finger to all those waiting for his fall.

Once this hearing was over, he'd know if this was going to trial or not and then that would be when the real circus would begin. He wasn't looking forward to it, but that was how the process went.

Time to get this over with.

* * *

There were more people here than Gordon thought there would be. He recognized a few faces, mainly people from the office so to speak. Personally, he'd rather have them out on the streets doing their jobs. He could see that Essen was over there, on the defense's side...in the front row. Shouldn't she be ruffling some feathers over at Elliot Pharmaceuticals?

And over there was Bullock. He had some murder cases involving the ruffled feathers of Gotham's elite. Was he taking the day off for this or something?

Over there, on the prosecution's side, was a face that he didn't mind not seeing for the rest of his life and, unlike the others, needed to be here. Forbes. And the blond-haired man was looking over at him. That grin of his was ticking the older man off, the smug bastard.

Still, Forbes was doing his job, but he could be less of an asshole about it.

Uncomfortable in his suit, Gordon made his way up to the defense table and took his seat. Somewhat comforting was the amount of papers and files on the table. At least his defense was using every weapon it had in its arsenal. How many of these things were legal precedents? How many were copies of existing laws? A bunch of it would undoubtedly fly over his head; the only laws he had ever concerned himself with were the criminal laws and the ones restricting law enforcement.

He had a feeling that a lot was going to fly over his head today.

"Jim." He looked up and met the sight of his lawyer, the man in charge of his defense. Stephan Baylor, not the best union lawyer out there, but he could be a lot worse. "How you doing today? Ready to get this over with?"

Goirdon nodded, not bothering to give an answer. Wasn't it obvious that he wanted to get this over with?

"Alright, remember, this is just a hearing. If we can derail the prosecution here, then it's over. We do a good enough job, that'll be the end of things. I'm feeling confident, Jim; I need you to be confident too." Lawyer talk, or the equivalent of small talk for a lawyer. The commissioner nodded, making a show of accepting Baylor's every word. Like he had been instructed the night before, he couldn't show anything, no sign of emotion or anything to further incriminate himself.

"Good, leave this to us. You're in good hands, Jim. You know that?"

He nodded again. Baylor patted him on the shoulder, an attempt at either solidarity or comfort. He could use some comforting, but from a lawyer that was the kind you didn't want.

The rest of his legal team showed up, coming in with a couple boxes that he assumed were more legal tricks they were going to throw at the prosecution. Like he had been told before, much of their defense was going to rely on smoke and mirrors, trying to convince the judge that the prosecution didn't have a foot to stand on.

Of course, Judge Earl Thompson was a judge to have little tolerance for courtroom antics and more importantly he tended to rule against law officers more than for. Not the most ideal circumstances if Gordon wanted to get out of this in one piece.

Speaking of the judge…

"All rise!" the bailiff announced, the whole room obeying the command. "This court is now in session. Now presiding, his honorable Judge Earl Thompson. All having business before this honorable court draw near, give attention, and you shall be heard." Throughout these instructions, the judge himself entered from his chambers, heading for the judge's bench. As soon as he took his seat, the bailif added, "You may be seated."

"Everyone, welcome," the balding judge greeted as he fixed his small-framed glasses. "This is a hearing only where we will determine the direction this case is taking. Today I will hear from the prosecution over whether the charges against Commissioner James Gordon should be taken to the Grand Jury for an indictment. As this is a hearing, I will reminded the counselors to keep things brief. Am I understood counselors?"

"Yes, your honor," came the simultaneous answer from Baylor and the prosecutor.

"Prosecutor, you may begin."

The prosecutor, a middle-aged man who gave off the aura of many years of legal experience, stood up. "The Prosecution calls Lieutenant John Forbes to the stand."

Gordon would like to say speak the devil's name and he shall appear, but in a court of law it was to be expected. Still, the way that Forbes walked towards the stand, it was more of a swagger than anything. Trust him, though he wore glasses he still had sharp eyes. The IA agent was sauntering his way to the witness stand, but was doing his best not to show it.

At the very least his facial expression was stone cold. Professional when he needed to be it seemed.

The bailiff approached Forbes, a bible in hand which he held to the IA lieutenant. "For the record, state your name."

"Lieutenant John Forbes," the witness stated.

"Raise your right hand."

It was an order Forbes obeyed as he placed his other hand on the bible held out to him.

"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" the bailiff inquired.

"I do," Forbes nodded.

"You may take your seat."

There was shuffling in the audience as spectators tried to get comfortable. There was a slight screech as Forbes took his seat, the legs of the wooden chair dragging on the floor, the man continuing to remain stoic. A moment of silence followed as the prosecutor readied himself.

Finally, the first question was asked.

"Lieutenant Forbes, what is it that you do?"

"I am an officer for the Internal Affairs unit of the Gotham City Police Department."

At that point, Gordon tuned out. It was going to be some standard questions for a bit. Who was Forbes, what did he do, and what was his involvement in the case. Gordon knew all the answers to those. The question he was going to be waiting for was the one where the prosecution asked about his findings. The commissioner wanted to know every little thing that Forbes thought he had on him.

If this was to be the end, he wanted to fight each and every point to the bitter end. He was not going to take these accusations lying down. Before it was over, he was going to give both Forbes and Krol reason to be wary of him.

"You've been investigation the commissioner for several weeks now, Lieutenant. What did you find out?"

There it was, the question the commissioner had been waiting for.

"I found that Commissioner Gordon had personal and financial ties to the former mayor, Hamilton Hill. As put into evidence, I found photographic evidence with the two on several occasions."

"Is this one of the photos?" the prosecutor asked, holding up one of the damning images. There he was, sitting across from Hill and appearing to have quite the friendly conversation.

"It is," Forbes confirmed.

"What else did you find?"

"Bank transactions into accounts owned by the accused."

"What is the relevance of these transactions?"

"They all begin around the time the vigilante known as Batman began to appear. Soon after that there are mysterious 'anonymous tips' that started coming in through the police phone logs. My findings have led me to conclude that this is some kind of working relationship between the two."

"Objection!" Baylor interrupted, standing up from his seat. It was more for show than any real feeling of outrage, Gordon noted. "The witness has no concrete evidence there even exists a relationship between the commissioner and the vigilante. This is pure speculation."

The judged glanced over at his lawyer, but Gordon knew it was a forgone conclusion. Thompson was going to let this line of questioning continue, regardless if it was speculation. This was a hearing, not a trial after all. "Objection overruled."

The commissioner glanced away from Forbes as Baylor sat back down and down at the defense table, covered as it was in all these files and papers. It almost reminded him of his desk back at HQ. All this clutter hopefully had a method to its madness.

Beside him, Baylor shifted in his seat, continuously writing on a legal pad, making notes to himself on what to question and what not to go into. Gordon didn't take a long look at any of it. From where he sat, it appeared to be a lot of words, but some of it stood out to him.

Where was this evidence found? How did you come across this evidence? Other questions that inquired about the means that Forbes used to bring about this hearing. Sounded like that smoke and mirrors he had been told about.

Movement from Baylor as he flipped to the next page in his legal pad caused him to push shift some of the files encased in manilla folders aside. It was too subtle as to cause a racket and was easily ignored by the court. However, Gordon's eyes landed on a file that seemed a bit...out of place. Something about it was odd, that was all, and other than that there was nothing else about it.

"Lieutenant, what can you tell me about the transactions? Were you able to find out where this money came from?"

"That is a funny thing. You see, the bank was not able to provide any documentation of where this money came from. All the bank could tell me was that it was a transfer; someone was wiring money into that account."

Really? Someone had been giving him cash and he hadn't known about it? A shame, that. He could have spent some of it already if he wasn't the type to question extensively where it came from first.

"Was there anything the bank could tell about where this money came from? Other than what you have told us."

"Not at this time. However, I—"

"Objection!"

Gordon waited until Baylor was overruled before he slipped out the odd file from its brethren. Casually, he opened it, being careful to not make too much sound. The first thing to meet his eyes were more photographs except there was something peculiar about these. There was him sitting down in a familiar pose, but that was just it. He was alone. The next was, of all people, Hamilton Hill at some kind of function and the next photo was…

Oh wow. Was he looking at what he...what he thought he was looking at? If so…

He kicked Baylor's leg under the table. Beside him, his lawyer glanced at him and Gordon tapped on the folder he had opened, directing Baylor's gaze to it. Now that caught Baylor's attention, though the man was smart enough to make any commotion about it.

The lawyer did throw a look at him, asking him where he had found this.

In response, Gordon shrugged his shoulders and jerked his head towards the legal aides. Maybe one of them had brought it in.

Naturally, he knew where this folder had come from. He wasn't that stupid. He had been through a situation like this before except it was in his office. Someone was watching out for him, someone Gordon suspected to be dressed all in black.

At least now he stood a chance.

* * *

There was an alcove high up in the cave. One could see the impressive set up Bruce had installed, from the giant supercomputer, to the medbay, to where he parked his car. He didn't really go to this place much since there wasn't much usage he could get out of it.

To get to this alcove, there was there was an ascending, arching path just by the staircase that led up to the manor. Again, the entrance to the path was difficult to find, blending in with the rock wall of the cave. It was a rocky, bumpy trail, carved out by centuries of erosion, much like the stalactites on the cave ceiling.

And in the alcove there was a rock formation that formed a crude-looking chair. The "seat" of the formation was sloped downwards towards its edge and the "armrests" were of irregular size, yet the back was smooth and flat.

It was in this chair that Bruce sat, looking out over the cave. He had on his armored suit, but had yet to put on his mask. Admittedly, he was distracted and had wandered up here for a private moment, to think and...well, brood. Alfred had followed him up here and was standing somewhere behind and off to the right, stoically lending his presence. The only sound between them was the occasional chirping of the bat colony overhead.

_You're not sorry, Wayne. Not yet._

Elliot's words kept bouncing in his head. The loathing, the rage the dark-haired man had recognized that day. What he hadn't seen was the darkness that festered inside a man he considered a friend. Now that he thought about it more, it was there plain to see. Hindsight was a terrible mistress.

Yet, looking back further, it shouldn't have surprised him. Throughout their lives, Elliot had spells of anger, usually when he had been beaten in one of their many games. At first Bruce just saw it as the redhead being a sore loser, but maybe there was more to it. That same anger would crop up in some random-seeming moments, such as the parties they attended. Those outbursts would happen seemingly out of nowhere, at some perceived slight that Bruce hadn't realized he had made, assuming he had even made one. The more he considered it, the more he felt it wasn't losing that enraged Elliot, but that he wasn't in control, that he wasn't six steps ahead as he liked to say. It was the bearing of a sociopath that struggled to regain his control.

How could he have missed that? All these years and he never noticed Elliot's incessant need to place everything where he wanted them to be, be it furniture or people.

_You're not sorry, Wayne. Not yet._

That day had to be the tipping point; it was the moment of Elliot's most humiliating defeat, or so he would look at it. And he had been trying to avenge it, regaining his control once more. Somehow he had gotten Matt Hagan into his employ and used him to attack Wayne Enterprises. Knowing from experience how manipulative Elliot could be, Bruce could see how Hagan's anger was used against him, and ultimately directed in a way Elliot wished it. Hagan had become a middleman, a smokescreen to hide the redhead's agenda.

Then came Cobblepot. Another smokescreen for the previous smokescreen. In fact, Bruce could go further and add the riots from last month as a part of Elliot's machinations. The pieces of the Hush puzzle kept sliding into place, giving the billionaire motive and action to this sociopath's plan. All that was left now was to find out where Elliot had disappeared to and apprehend him.

A gentle cough from behind him broke Bruce from his musings. Tilting his head to a side, he spotted Alfred out of the corner of his eye. "Alfred," he greeted him.

"Master Bruce, if I may be so bold, you appear to be in a very thoughtful mood," the butler said. "Would I be wrong to assume it has to do with Commissioner Gordon?"

Wrong yes, but that brought up a whole new can of worms. Gordon's hearing had begun today and it wasn't all that flattering for their mutual ally. Forbes had done everything he could to vilify the commissioner and it wasn't a surprise at all to see it working. Gordon and his lawyer had yet to speak out, but hopefully when they did they could put this entire matter to rest. With the...evidence...he left for them, it should clear up any doubts surrounding the older man.

Between the files he had taken from Elliot's desk and the computer files on the laptop, there was ample information that could turn the hearing on its head. It was just a matter of Gordon's lawyer using them correctly.

"I'm confident that the allegations against Gordon will be settled soon," Bruce eventually answered. Pressing his hands on the stone armrests, he pushed himself up onto his feet and walked around the chair, heading to the descending pathway down. "However, we're not quite out of the woods yet."

Alfred followed the younger man down the path until they reached the main floor. Both men made their way to a lab set up where various beakers, petri dishes, microscopes, and the like were scattered about on a couple of tables. Heading to one end of the tables, Bruce homed in on a small dish with a glob of tan slime on it—the sample of Hagan, which the former actor had left behind at Wayne Enterprises.

"Researching more on the unfortunate fate of Mr. Hagan?" Alfred prodded him.

"Something like that. Hagan's aligned himself with Elliot, so it stands to reason that we will meet again. However, I don't intend on going into that meeting unprepared and armed only with explosive shuriken."

"Because blowing something up loses its appeal after awhile?"

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched up. "You could say that." By the petri dish, there were several small, metal probes lying on the table. Picking up one, he stuck it into the slime. "As far as I know, explosives can only hold him back for so long. Eventually Hagan's going to figure out how to avoid them or stop me from even using them. I need another weapon to use against him."

"I suppose you have some idea of how to do that."

Bruce stuck in a second probe. "Honestly, no, I don't. The first time we fought, I sprayed him with a fire extinguisher. The chemicals had some sort of freezing effect on him, but Hagan's had time to overcome that attack."

"So if freezing Mr. Hagan doesn't work, what do you intend on doing?" Alfred inquired.

"I've already tried fire. While it hardens the sample, it usually reverts back to its malleable form once it cools. I've also tried various chemicals and reactants, but again, those only proved temporary."

"And what is this test you're about to perform?"

Sticking in another two probes, Bruce then took a step back, a remote control in his hand. "This time I'm trying electricity. The probes give off an electrical current when activated." He came to a stop a few feet away from the table. "You may want to take a step back."

"Very good, Sir." Almost casually, Alfried strode towards Bruce until he stood behind him, watching over the dark-clad man's shoulder. Grabbing his mask, the younger man pulled over his head, providing his eyes with some protection should the experiment have an undesirable outcome.

Holding up the control, the vigilante fixed his gaze on the sample. With a press of a button, the top of the probes lit up with a bright blue light. Bolts of electricity danced over the slime an instant later, a crackling sound being heard. Watching, nothing seemed to happen to the sample as it took the voltage, much to Batman's disappointment. Releasing his hold on the button, he canceled the shock.

It was then he was met with a very unexpected reaction. The moment the electricity stopped, the sample began reacting wildly, jiggling and forming various shapes. First it became a cube before shuddering and transforming into a sphere. Another second went by before it spasmed and tiny spikes extended out of the ball. Then, it lost it shape and melted back into its previous, clumpy form.

"My word," Alfred spoke after a moment.

Batman frowned. "That was unexpected." Approaching the sample, he began pulling out the probes, lying them on the table.

"What do you suppose this means?" the butler asked as he approached him from behind.

"Other than it responds to an electrical stimulus, not much." Batman paused. "Which would makes sense since Hagan has to control it somehow. The electric current of his nervous system provides the stimuli and his mind allows it to form whatever he wants.

"So then logically, if someone or something provides a second stimuli, it would counter Hagan's and potentially cancel out whatever shape he's taken." He paused to think about that. "That's assuming the second current is able to equal or overwhelm Hagan's nervous system. If it's too week, it won't do a thing, but if it's too strong, he could lose control of his shape-shifting and there's no telling what would happen then."

"Then you need a weapon that delivers the desired shock," Alfred summarized. "I do believe we have just the thing."

Amused, Batman turned his head to watch as Alfred spun around on his feet and walked away from the lab set-up. It was several minutes until the butler returned with a small, black case in his hands, making his way to the vigilante and coming to a stop next to him. The moment the older man halted, he opened the case, revealing two pieces of metal with four round holes in them.

"Brass knuckles, Alfred?" Batman questioned.

"As with your utility belt, Master Bruce, not everything is what it seems," the butler replied.

Deciding to humor the older man, he picked up one of the brass knuckles and slide it over his fingers. The moment he squeezed his hand into a fist, bolts of electricity began dancing on the metal's surface. Raising an eyebrow at that, he relaxed his hand and saw the electricity stop just as soon as it began.

Turning his head, he looked at the sample. Squeezing his hand again, he lowered the electrified knuckle and touched it to the slime. Immediately, he jerked back his hand and watched as the sample reacted, forming a pyramid briefly before going inert again.

"Not everything is what it seems," he quoted as he turned back to Alfred with a smirk.

"Quite, Sir. I believe that just leaves the capturing of Mr. Hagan now."

Batman nodded his head as he removed the brass knuckle. Though temporary, these electrified brass knuckles provided him with an opportunity to cause some damage to Hagan. But as he had proved in their last two encounters, he was able to slip out of any tight place when he chose to. Immobilizing him was going to be quite a challenge, especially when the only method that indicated some use was freezing him.

That thought caused Batman to perk his head up. Perhaps there was a way to stop Hagan cold in his tracks.

* * *

A couple notes: the stone chair Bruce sits in at the beginning of his scene is one used in the animated series. It only ever popped up once or twice, but it usually had him brooding in it. I've always liked that image of him sitting on a rock formation, stepping away from the Batman to get lost in his thoughts.

The second note concerns the electrified brass knuckles. Those are the ones Batman uses in the Justice League show, so that should give everyone a better visual of those. I did find it odd he only ever used one instead of having one for each hand. It always seemed a waste to only have one effective hand instead of two.


	24. Fallen Pawn

"The prosecution rests."

Those were the words that Gordon had been waiting to hear for some time. A glance over at Baylor brought with it an inquiry: how would his lawyer use this new information, if he used it at all? As a lawyer acting ethically, meaning putting out all the stops for his client, he should use it in a heartbeat.

But Gordon had seen enough intrigue to be skeptical of a lot of people. Baylor was his _union_ appointed lawyer and the union and he were not on the best of terms, especially after the rash of firings he had authorized.

He was at the mercy of another man. He would have to trust Baylor to do everything that was necessary for his client.

"Lieutenant Forbes," Baylor spoke up as he stood up. "Would you mind telling me where you found all this evidence?"

"As with most investigations, you don't find them in one place," Forbes answered, becoming stiff. Yes, Forbes was not a person who liked being doubted or questioned. He was the type that asked the questions and was not accountable to anyone.

"And where are these places, Lieutenant?" Baylor pressed.

"All over the place," Forbes answered. A glance to the prosecution's table allowed the commissioner to see the prosecutor wince. The vague answers were not going to be helpful for them.

"Alright, how did you find these pictures?" Baylor changed his track of questioning. Personally, Gordon would have kept demanding to know where the evidence was found, but hopefully Baylor knew what he was doing.

"A concerned citizen." Very brief, yet still vague.

"Who was this concerned citizen?"

"He would only speak to me on condition of anonymity."

"So some anonymous citizen who you have only mentioned just now was the person who gave you these photos of...refresh my memory, who was in the photos?"

"Commissioner Gordon and former Mayor Hill. Haven't you looked at them yet?" A jeer if Gordon ever saw one.

"Yes, yes, of course. So this citizen happened to have multiple pictures of the commissioner with the former mayor at several functions, right?"

"It's in the file. You should have seen it already."

"So this person has some money on them, yes? Otherwise how would he be able to take such pictures? I mean, it certainly looks like the kind of place where you need to have some kind of status to be in."

Forbes hesitated. For once, the arrogance he carried in spades abandoned him as he wracked his mind for the photos in question. "I...I suppose…" he murmured.

Gordon held his breath. Looked like first blood was drawn. He hadn't seen Forbes look that unsure before.

"And when this picture was taken, was the current commissioner with enough wealth that he could attend one of these functions?"

"He's in the picture isn't he?"

"I'm just trying to understand." Baylor approached the defense table and removed one of the pictures. "The former mayor here looks awfully well-dressed. I then look at our commissioner and he looks like he just rolled out of bed." He held the picture up to Forbes. "Look at his hair. Does it look groomed or styled to you? Shouldn't he look more, I don't know, presentable?"

"Maybe he showed up late?" Forbes guessed. "What does it matter?"

"Hey, isn't that Lucius Fox of Wayne Enterprises also there?" Baylor pointed to a figure in the picture. "I don't know about you, but it looks like the commissioner is way out of place, not to mention his means to be in a place with someone of that social status."

"His bank records show otherwise," Forbes snarked.

"We'll get to those later. Now, I want to show you something." Baylor returned to the defense table and flipped open the mystery file. Removing a couple of the pictures, he marched back over to Forbes. "What's in this picture?" he asked, holding one of them up to the lieutenant.

Forbes gave Baylor a look, but did as instructed, mumbling unintelligibly.

"Could you say that aloud for the court what's in the picture?" the lawyer asked.

"It's of Hill."

"And where is he?"

"At something fancy."

"Similar to the picture of Hill and Gordon?"

"Er...yes, I suppose. What does this have to do with anything?"

"Just a moment. Now, what don't you see in this photo?"

"I don't think I'm missing anything."

"Really, because if my eyes are not deceiving me, that looks like Lucius Fox over there and he looks like to be in the same position and everything like in this other picture."

"Objection!" the prosecutor called out. "Approach the bench, your honor."

Judge Thompson gestured an affirmative. Gordon remained seat, watching as the judge and attorneys hashed out what the prosecution objection was. Most likely something about discovery. There was always an exception, he recalled, if the evidence came in at a time when getting it to the other side was infeasible, then it would still be allowed.

"Objection overruled."

The little group meeting ended with the prosecutor not looking pleased, which the commissioner took as a good sign. The judge, though, continued to wear an emotionless mask, not giving away any of his thoughts.

"Where were we?" Baylor asked rhetorically. "Right, as I was saying, that looks like Lucius Fox in both photographs, wearing the same thing and in the same exact position. Do you agree or disagree?"

Forbes looked like he had swallowed a lemon and he was expected to answer. How would he answer? Would he deny it or confirm it? That was one thing Gordon didn't know: Forbes' integrity. Was he the type of man who could admit that he was wrong?

"It looks...somewhat alike, but I would have to compare it and—"

"How about now? You have both of them right in front of you?" Baylor interrupted, holding the previous photo next to its kin.

"I'd need...the equipment to do that. Human eyes aren't the most—"

But isn't that what you used when you first saw the picture? Hold on a sec." Another photo was presented to Forbes. "Look at this. State for the court what it is."

"Commissioner Gordon."

"And what is Commissioner Gordon doing?"

"He's...sitting."

"On what?"

"A chair."

"Is it anything like the one he's sitting in in this one?" Baylor was on the attack, holding up the incriminating photo once again. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say the lighting in this one is the same in the other." He held up the photo of Gordon sitting then the other with Gordon and Hill. "Rathering jarring how it doesn't seem to match up quite right in this one."

Forbes was looking befuddled and Baylor didn't seem to be done with him yet. The lawyer was back at the defense table and snatching up the whole file. Oh yes, he was throwing everything at the IA agent.

It was almost surreal to Gordon as Baylor showed picture after picture to the man on the witness stand, debunking every incriminating photo with the ones in the folder. One by one they went, and Forbes was losing credibility with each and every one.

"So, Lieutenant, is this anonymous citizen a credible source now?" the defense attorney finished up.

"He...he was…at the time..." Forbes struggled with words.

"I'm not talking about at the time, I'm talking about right now. Is this anonymous citizen a credible source?"

"He…"

"Answer the question, Lieutenant."

"Objection! He's badgering the witness, your honoring."

"Objection sustained. Counselor." The last bit was spoken warningly and Baylor got the hint.

"I think the answer should be obvious, but we'll move on. Now, tell me what your investigation found about the commissioner's financial situation."

"You have a copy of the transcript. You should know."

"Refresh the court's memory of your findings."

"I found various transactions that occurred over a period of time that added more money than is common for a man with his pay."

"When did these transactions start occurring?"

"Around the time the vigilante Batman began to appear."

"So he wasn't receiving any of these transaction at the time this picture was allegedly taken?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Do you not know when the photo was taken and if the transactions took place when it was taken? What is your answer?"

Gordon knew he shouldn't be enjoying this, but seeing the shoe on the other foot was so satisfying. Forbes, who was so used to be the hardass and putting people into uncomfortable positions, was now the one in the hot seat and he wasn't doing so well. The way he was pulling at his collar and shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Gordon was willing to bet that the prick was also starting sweat. Couldn't handle the heat, could he?

"I...don't know the answer to that," Forbes admitted.

"But this is your proof that the commissioner is guilty of wrongdoing, isn't it? And you don't know that?" Baylor was like a shark in the water and Forbes was nothing but fresh meat now. Seeing that the IA agent wasn't going to answer, the attorney changed tracks. "Let's go back to the bank record. Now, you've done an extensive investigation into Gordon's finances, right?"

"Of course I did! It was the first thing I did!" Forbes exclaimed heatedly.

"Before you got your hands on the evidence in this file, what did you find?"

"Evidence that—"

"I'm not talking about what's on this sheet of paper. I'm talking about what you found before you laid eyes on it."

"I don't—"

"Isn't it true that you requested to see all of Commissioner Gordon's finances from the past twenty years?"

"Yes."

"Well, looking at this record right here, you could have found this out just by looking in the past year, not the past twenty. Why did you request to see that much, Lieutenant?"

"I wanted to see the extent of the corruption!" Forbes spat.

"And what did you find? What was the 'extent' of this 'corruption'?" Baylor demanded.

Forbes hesitated.

"You know you are still under oath," Baylor reminded.

"I...didn't find anything." Now that was an admission that had to fight tooth and nail to get out of Forbes' throat.

"Mind if I show you something?" Not waiting for an answer, Baylor pulled out a copy of the bank record. "What's this?"

"A record of bank transactions."

"What is the date on it?"

"It's April."

"And the day?"

"The twenty-second."

"How about this one? What's the date on this one?" Baylor held out another piece of paper.

"The...twenty-third. Of April."

"Now that is curious, isn't it? How many transactions are on the one dated the twenty-second? Are there the same number of transactions on this date when compared to the ones on the twenty-third?"

"It looks like...less…"

"How did that many transactions occur in less than a day? In fact, how did that many transactions occur but on different dates? The one on the twenty-third has more transactions on different days than the one from the twenty-second? How do you explain these discrepancies, Lieutenant?"

"How do I know you didn't doctor it?" Forbes demanded, redfaced.

"How does the court know that _you_ didn't doctor all _these_?" Baylor sneered, shaking the folder he still held. "It doesn't seem like you're doing your job well, Lieutenant. How do we know you don't have an ulterior motive against the commissioner?"

"Objection! Speculation!" the prosecutor interjected.

"Sustained," the judge said.

"I'm done with this witness anyway," Baylor said, returning to the defense table. "Tender the witness, your honor," he added, not bothering to look at the prosecutor as he walked back to the defense table.

Forbes just scowled as he watched Baylor's back. For Gordon, he wasn't feeling all that sorry for the prick, so let him glare all he wanted. His entire case was fish food as far as he was concerned.

* * *

From the docks to a warehouse, this was to be the new drop-off point for the weapons. Cobblepot didn't like it. He didn't like change that he wasn't responsible for and this "boss" o' his and the girlie bitch workin' for him were most definitely forcin' that change on him. That included havin' him be at this new location for the shipment, somethin' he'd never done because it was bloody stupid. He might as well send up a freakin' flare that shouted "The Penguin's here, come and get 'em!"

And speakin' of the girlie, Candice was standin' a lil ways away, watchin' smugly as the boys loaded the cargo onto the trucks. She looked liked the cat that caught the canary and was radiatin' her new-found power o'er him. This further rankled the Penguin's mood, sourin' it with e'ery passin' minute.

As if she knew he was lookin' at her, Candice turned her pretty lil head and gave him a smirk. "Everything is going according to plan, right Mr. Cobblepot?"

Cobblepot jerked his head away, grumbling unintelligibly. "Oh, don't be that way," the girlie continued to egg at him. "Everyone is getting what they want here. It'd be a shame if you pouted the entire night."

"Yeah, it would be, wouldn't it?" Penguin replied, starin' as a rectangular create was roughly shoved onto the backend of one o' the trucks. "The night's still young. Plenty o' time for it to liven up."

Candice smiled at him. "That's the spirit. We're almost done here so we can go put out those Chinese guys."

"Right," the short man nodded his head. "Speakin' o' which, we need to discuss somethin' 'bout that. Ya know, since your boss wants to be callin' all the shots now."

The dark-haired girlie gave him a look. "Still sulking, dear?"

"Nothin' o' the sort," Penguin snapped. "What I mean is that he led me to believe he was in full control here. I thought he'd like a status update o' our comin's and goin's is all."

Candice looked thoughtful at that. "I don't see why he needs to know, but if that's what he said to you, then fire away."

With a glance to the boys, Cobblepot said, "Not here. This ain't for the ears o' lesser folk, if ya catch my drift."

The girlie turned to look at the workcrew and shrugged her pretty lil shoulders. "If that's the way you want it, I don't see any reason not to."

"Perfect, now follow me." Waddlin' away, he shouted to the boys, "Keep workin' you louts! When you're done, head out! I'll be right behind yas!"

Cobblepot and Candice made their way out o' the main room o' the buildin', enterin' a small hallway that led to the entrance. Makin' a left at one o' the doors, the two found themselves in a crappy lil breakroom. The short man held the door open for the lil lass, who strode in confidently. He watched her e'ery move like a hawk, a gleam in his eye as he tightened his grip on his umbrella handle.

"So what is it you wanted to tell me?" Candice asked as she stopped in the middle o' the room, turnin' around and crossin' her arms under her undercarriage. Penguin just closed the door behind them, limpin' over to the lady.

"Well ya see, me and the bossman had a bit o' a miscommunication the other night," Cobblepot began, slowly closin' the distance between him and the girlie. "Somehow he thinks he's in charge o' this lil operation."

Candice looked at him with annoyance. "That's because he is."

"Now ya see, that's where we're miscommunicatin'. No one is the boss of Oswald Cobblepot, ya hear?"

The girlie gave him an amused look. "That doesn't seem to be the way things are now," she replied. "Need I remind you—"

Cobblepot raised his the tip o' his umbrella and pointed it right at the girlie. With a flip of a tiny switch at the base o' the umbrella's shaft, a long knife blade shot out o' the tip o' the umbrella, stoppin' barely an inch away from the girlie's face.

"No, I think it's you who needs the reminder," the Penguin growled. "I own this town, me, no one else!" his voice rose with e'ery word he said until he was shoutin', spit flyin' out o' his mouth. "Not you, not some ol' geezer that sounds like he's smoked one too many cheap cigars, not that freakin' Bat—ME!"

Candice stared at the tip o' the blade, paralyzed from shock. Cobblepot continued, "Now, I like you, girlie, really I do. But you and your boss made a _big _mistake. You thought you could make Oswald Cobblepot a pet, a lackey, someone you could control. You've crossed me, both o' yas." He paused to let that sink in. "I warned you what would happen if you crossed me. I said some horrible things to you and I meant e'ery word."

Extending his arm out, the edge o' the knife touched Candice's cheek. With a firmer jerk of his arm, the blade bit into the woman's face. To her credit, she didn't cry out from the cut. "Now I'm goin' to have to do all those horrible things to you, me dear. Believe me when I say that I didn't want to come to this, but you've left me no choice."

Candice remain frozen where she stood. But then somethin' unexpected happen. Instead of cowerin' like he expected her to, she merely took a step back, movin' away from the Penguin. "My employer had hoped it wouldn't come to this," she said, raising a hand up between them.

And then her voice dropped from the pleasant, feminine tone to a deeper, masculine one. "But I knew you were just dying to disappoint."

"What the devil?" Cobblepot exclaimed at the sudden voice change.

Suddenly, Candice's hand ballooned into a giant, clay-colored one. Before he knew it, the hand was launched at him, causing the short man to scream as it rammed into him, his umbrella falling out o' his grasp. He was knocked off his feet and carried to the wall behind him, his back slamming into it as he cried out. The fingers pierced the sheetrock, pinnin' the Penguin against the wall.

Stars were flashin' in front of Cobblepot's eyes, the result o' the back o' his head hittin' the wall behind him. Grittin' his teeth, he shook away the daze and looked back at the thing he thought was Candice.

It was still standin' where it was when it attacked him, only it was missin' a hand. Tan goop dripped from its arms. And then, five thin tubes emerged from the appendage, extendin' out and stoppin' as a brand new hand formed.

Cobblepot stared at it in horror. "What the hell are you?"

That same deep voice replied from "Candice's" mouth. "I'm someone you don't mess with, Bird-boy." It took a step towards him, which caused Cobblepot to cower away best he could. The thing smirked at his reaction. "I always knew you weren't so tough."

That enraged the Penguin. "And you're a bloody freak! I don't care what you think you are, the moment I'm off this wall, I will rip you apart!"

"Candice" continued to smirk at him as it straightened out its posture. Then to his shock, the monster raised a hand to its chest and pushed it in, buryin' inside its body. It seemed to be searchin' for somethin' and eventually found it. Pullin' its arm out, it held a large piece o' dynamite in its hand. Settin' the explosive down on a nearby table, the monster reached inside itself and pulled out a few more sets o' dynamite.

"What the hell are you doin' now?" the short man demanded.

"Unfortunately for you, your services are no longer required." The monster began fiddlin' with the explosives, attachin' wires to each set and connectin' them to another. It then connected a timer to one o' them. Adjustin' the timer, the creature set it at 20:00, then started it. "You've got twenty minutes to live. If I were you, I'd start hoping the Batman shows up. Otherwise…"

The monster trailed off as it smiled sinisterly at him. Cobblepot didn't need it to finish anyway; he knew what dynamite did. The monster leered at him as it added, "Oh, before I forget, you might want to tell anyone who plays with those lovely explosives not to. Anyone that tries to disarm it, well, I think you know what'll happen."

The creature then walked towards him, anglin' for the door. Cobblepot followed its movements until it stopped at the door. It then turned to him, leaned forward, and raised a hand to its face. It kissed the palm o' its hand and then bent it backwards, blowing the kiss towards the short man before disappearing through the doorway and slammin' the door shut.

Turning his head back, Cobblepot stared at the timer.

19:47...19:46…19:45

* * *

The city had been quiet until a loud boom shattered its serenity. From his perch on one of the taller skyscrapers, Batman quickly located a rising cloud of smoke east of his location. Using his elevation, he activated his glider cape and soared towards it. A couple more explosions roared out in the time it took him to reach a warehouse, three raging fires right outside of a dock.

Angling his glide, he swooped around the building, descending until he landed right on the dock. Releasing his grip, his stiffened cape went slack, dropping over his shoulders. With a look to the trucks, he couldn't see anything that he could be of assistance with and entered the warehouse.

Batman found himself alone in a large room. There were other trucks, similar to the U-hauls that Cobblepot favored. They were abandoned though, and none of his men were anywhere nearby. The vigilante found that strange.

Something wasn't right. Why the trucks? With a look into one of them, he saw several crates, each one identical to the weapon shipment that Gordon and the GCPD had intercepted. So this was another arms deal, or was. Climbing into the truck, Batman went to one of the crates, noticing a piece of paper taped to it. Looking at it, he read the address of the warehouse, along with a sender's. 561 Beaumont Lane. Grabbing the paper, he ripped it off the crate and stuck it into his belt. Turning his head to a side, he then noticed a crowbar hanging on the wall next to the crate. Taking the crowbar, he inserted one end between the crate and the lid and applied force, the lid slowly rising up and revealing the naked shafts of nails as he pried open the box.

Removing the crowbar, he moved to another side of the create and did the same thing. Dropping the piece of metal, the vigilante then lifted the lid up and looked inside the box. The first thing he saw were stacks of C4 explosives and right in the middle of them was a detonation device. There was a digital clock on the detonator, indicating it was timed and according to the clock, there was only six seconds left.

Batman dropped the lid and rushed out of the truck. Leaping out of the bed, he landed on the cement floor and dropped down, covering himself with his cape. An instant later, the truck exploded, the force of the blast ramming into the dark-clad man, flames licking at him with scorching heat.

He stayed down for a moment before peaking out of his cape. It was like a bonfire mere feet away from him, the U-haul truck barely visible from the flames. He could make out the the front of the truck and its back, but its roof and walls was gone, due to the blast.

As he stood up, the vigilante began to make his way to one of the other trucks to see if he could investigate them before they too blew up, but stopped when he heard something. Stopping, he focused on his hearing, trying to make out what the faint noise was. If he wasn't mistaken, it sounded like someone screaming.

Turning away from the trucks, Batman began following the scream, finding it growing louder as he approached a doorway. Going through it, he entered a small hallway with a couple doors further down it. He could definitely make out the shouts now, which were coming from a door to the left. Going to the door, he shoved it open and stepped in.

The first thing he saw were the explosives, along with a timer that was ticking down from 3:32…3:31...3:30. To his left, he was surprised to find Cobblepot of all people trapped against the wall with the largest hand he had ever seen pinning him to it. However, he recognized the clay coloring of it and its melted-looking texture.

"It's about time you got your bloody ass here!" Cobblepot shouted at him, a hint of relief in his voice. "Get me down from here, fast! Before that bomb goes off!"

Batman looked from the short man to the bomb and back. He then began walking up to the dynamite, ignoring the timer as it kept counting down. 3:20...3:19...3:18…

"What the hell are you doing?!" the Penguin demanded.

"Trying to see if I can disarm it," the vigilante replied as he took a closer look. The wiring was simple, connecting the detonator to every stack of dynamite. From what he could tell, if he snipped the wires, it would deactivate everything.

"No, you crazy freak! You'll blow us sky-high!"

Apparently Cobblepot didn't have much faith in his bomb-disarming abilities. However, as he looked closer, he found that perhaps the man was onto something. Attached to the wires he noticed a sensor. Though he wasn't an expert by any means, his studying of bomb anatomy had informed him of a failsafe should anyone tamper with an explosive device. Some bombs had sensors that detected broken circuits in the wiring and would trigger the detonator. This turned out to be one of those bombs.

2:59...2:58...2:57…

He turned to Cobblepot, taking in what had to be Hagan's enlarged hand. There was no way he could pry it off the wall, not if he wanted to get both him and Cobblepot out in one piece. Glancing at the room around him, he noted it looked like a breakroom of some kind. Eyeing some cabinets against one of the walls, he walked over to them and began opening up the doors.

"What the hell are you doin'?" Cobblepot shouted panicky. "Don't go robbin' the joint! Get me down from here!"

"That's what I'm doing," Batman retorted as he opened another cabinet and found what he was looking for. Pulling out a fire extinguisher, he pulled the pen and grabbed the hose, aiming it at Hagan's fingers. Squeezing the trigger, the white chemicals erupted out of the nozzle. Cobblepot coughed raggedly as he was partially sprayed with the exhaust.

Stopping the spray, Batman noticed with satisfaction that the clay fingers had hardened from the chemicals. Ignoring Penguin as he began cursing him. The vigilante turned the fire extinguisher around and swung its base at the hand. The cylinder hit and cracked the fingers where they had been frozen. Another swing and they shattered, crumbling pieces scattering about the floor.

2:27...2:26...2:25…

Dropping the fire extinguisher, hearing it clatter loudly on the floor, Batman grabbed onto the hand and began to pull as hard as he could. Slowly, the hand began to pull away from the wall, causing Cobblepot's squatty from to shift downward. The short man was doing his part too as he pushed against his binds. The two men strained and grunted loudly until Cobblepot slid down to the floor, free from the hand's grasp.

As the Penguin sat on the ground, panting loudly, Batman turned back to look at the detonator, eyes widening at what he saw.

0:43…0:42...0:41…

They were almost out of time. Reaching down, he grabbed Cobblepot by the arm and began dragging him on the floor and out of the room. The pudgy man cried out in protest, but the vigilante hardly cared. Seeing double-doors to his left, he charged at them, kicking them open as hard as he could. The door flew open, revealing the empty street in front of the warehouse.

He kept running, even down several steps and across asphalt, dragging the screaming Cobblepot behind him. The moment they reached the other side of the street though, a bigger explosion occurred.

Every window of the building was shattered by the blast, flames erupting out of them. The roof was destroyed in an instant as a thunderous _BOOM!_ deafened the two men. The very force of the explosion flung them through the air, startled cries tearing from their mouths until they slammed into the building in front of them, stunning them as they collapsed to the sidewalk.

Lying there, Batman allowed his aching body to recover before he moved to look at the warehouse. He could see flames dancing high above it, a large cloud of smoke spilling out into the air.

A groan tore his eyes away from the burning building to Cobblepot's stirring body. Growling, Batman hauled himself onto his feet and grabbed the shorter man by the collar of his shirt. Lifting him up, he slammed the man against the wall of the building next to them and causing him to squawk in pain.

"Where are they?" Batman barked at him. "Hush and Hagan, where are they?"

"What the hell are you babblin' about?" Cobblepot shouted back at him.

"I want the man that hired you and pulled you out of prison," he growled, bringing his face closer to the Penguin's. "And right now, I am _not_ in the mood for games."

Cobblepot looked flabbergasted at him for a moment before he shot back, "You think _I_ would work _for_ some blimey wanker that tried to _kill_ me?! Are you out o' your goddamn mind?! Keep your pointy bat nose out o' this, you hear me?! That bastard and the monster-girl are mine!"

Batman slammed his fist into the short man's face. "You've done enough, you maniac," he responded as the Penguin cried out in pain. He then grabbed the man's face, pulled it forward, them rammed it hard against the brick wall of the building behind him, knocking him out cold. Dropping Cobblepot to the ground, he stared down at the short man's crumpled form.

Cobblepot had no idea where Elliot or Hagan were. Apparently he was just another pawn of theirs, which left him at square one. Damn it.

Reaching to his belt, he went to pull out a set of handcuffs when his fingers brushed against the pouch with the shipping address he took from one of the crates. Pulling out the sheet of paper, he looked at the addresses again. It was a long shot, but perhaps this could lead him to Elliot. It wasn't like he had many choices at the moment.


	25. The Lair of Hush

The building at 561 Beaumont Lane turned out to be a stroke of luck. Situated on an building across the street from it, Batman look in the large, rectangular structure. It was partially completed with many parts of it visibly under construction. Towards the top, however, a big insignia for Elliot Pharmaceuticals was displayed.

This had to be the place Elliot was. The weapon shipment with Cobblepot had only been a way to get his attention and direct him here. His former friend was looking for a confrontation and he was going to get it.

With Cobblepot currently in police custody, that only left Matt Hagan as an additional threat. His current location was unknown, but it was very possible he was here as well. Scanning the incomplete structure, the vigilante looked for a sign of life, anything that would direct him to Elliot's exact location.

_There!_ Towards the third floor, movement. Batman launched himself from his perch, activating the electrical current in his gauntlet, and grabbing onto his cape. The moment it stiffened, he angled downwards towards one of the openings in the building, the wind battering him as he dropped. Then at the last moment, he leveled off, swooping through the opening and released his cape. He touched down on the cement flooring a moment later with a heavy thud.

The room he was in was incomplete, much like the outside of the building. Wooden beams that indicated where future walls would be were scattered throughout, some of which had sheetrock already being plastered on. There were pipes that lined the roof and power tools placed towards the outer walls, hidden from sight so that anyone with sticky fingers wouldn't see them and try their luck at stealing them.

Batman gazed about the semi-open room, alarms going off in his head. He knew someone was down here and their missing presence was causing his paranoia to go crazy. With his cape draping over him, hiding his body and arms from sight, he began stalking throughout the floor. He eyed everything, searching for some hint, some clue that would give him a direction to where his foe was. Around wooden frames, palates with bags of cement on them, and support beams, he searched.

And then he saw it. A saw table situated right in front of one of the wall openings for anyone on the street to see. Seeing as how the other equipment was purposefully placed behind cover, this drew the vigilante's attention instantly.

A shuriken in hand, his thumb running over the middle of it, he sent it flying at the saw table, one of the ends of the shuriken sticking in when it made contact. From where he stood, he saw a red light flash on the projectile before it exploded in a cloud of flame and smoke.

When the smoke cleared, all Batman saw was a ruined saw table, pieces of it scattered on the floor. The dark-clad man growled. He was being played—

A whooshing sound was his only warning. Immediately, he dove to a side, stretching out an arm so that he could land on his hand. An instant later, something big and heavy smashed into his previous spot. Hand touching down the floor, he leaned further to the side, his arm holding his weight as his feet swung into the air. With his other arm, he pressed it down a second before his first one lifted off the floor, allowing him to perform a cartwheel and land on his feet.

Looking back to where he had been, Batman's eyes widened as he saw the largest ax he had ever seen embedded in the floor, the concrete broken into pieces around it and a spider's web of cracks crawling everywhere. The ax was torn from the floor and retracted, Batman following it as he noticed the thick, clay-colored arm the metal weapon was attach to return to its source. Standing between two wooden frames was Hagan, chuckling sinisterly as his arm finished shrinking and the ax melted and reformed as his hand.

"I've figured out how to managed this thing pretty good," Hagan remarked giddily.

Batman scowled at the former actor. "I'm only going to ask you this once, Hagan: where's Elliot?"

"Sorry, Matt Hagan isn't available. Right now, you're talking to Clayface!"

The vigilante moved his hands to his belt, pulling out his brass knuckles. He slipped them, careful to keep his hands relaxed so as not to activate the electricity. "Last chance, tell me where Elliot is and I won't have to hurt you."

Clayface looked at him incredulously. "You hurt me? Ha! Haven't you figured it out yet? I can't be hurt! Bullet's can't hurt me; I can recover from bomb blasts in seconds; there's nothing you can do to me that I can't heal from."

"Have it your way."

Clayface smiled his disfigured smile before threw an arm out, his hand extending out at rapid speeds. Batman shot to his right and down, dodging the flying hand as it flew by harmlessly. Taking off, he ran towards the monster as it aimed its other hand at him, extending his arm as well. Diving, the vigilante barely dodged it as it flew over head, Clayface's hand ramming into the floor behind the dark-clad man.

Rolling head over feet, Batman found himself right in front of Clayface, his torso open for attack. Clutching his fingers, electricity dancing over his brass knuckles, he threw his right fist, landing it on the monsters abdomen.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" Clayface cried out as the electricity zapped him, causing him to take a step back. The vigilante threw his left fist then, landing in the same place as his previous blow and forced Clayface to take another step. Then, he leapt into the air, another fist drawn back, and then slammed it into the monster's face.

Hagan stumbled several steps back as his arms retracted, screaming out in pain. He suddenly lost his footing and fell to the ground, crashing onto his back.

"What…what did you do to me," the monster growled as he leaned forward to look at the vigilante, grimacing as he did so.

"You're not the only one that's learned a few tricks, Hagan," Batman replied.

"I told you, it's not Hagan! It's Clayface!"

To this, the Batman smirked. "Whatever you say."

With a roar, Clayface threw his arm out. However, this time his hand began to change, his fingers and palm shrinking into his wrist, only to be replaced as five steel fingers emerged out, each one pointed outwards. That was when the arm began to extend, firing the bladed hand.

This time, Batman dashed to his left, cape billowing behind him as the extending projectile flew by behind him harmlessly. However, this time Clayface stopped his extending and swung the elongated arm after him, tearing through wooden frames as it closed in on the dark-clad man.

Again, Batman dove to floor, the arm flying over his head. As he began to roll onto his feet, he pulled out a bat-shaped shuriken with each hand, pressing his thumbs on their centers. The moment he was back on his feet, staying in a crouched position, he flung one of the shuriken at Clayface, just as the monster was getting back up, kneeling on the ground. Seeing the projectile flying towards him, he reached out with his normal hand and caught the shuriken, enveloping it in his fist.

A second later, the shuriken exploded, blowing off his hand and sending pieces of him flying about the floor. Another scream tore from Hagan's lips. Batman instantly threw his second shuriken, this one embedding itself into Clayface's chest. That stopped the former actor's scream for a moment as he looked down at it, only for it to explode and send him crying in agony again as he collapsed to the floor.

So far everything was working in Batman's favor. Hagan seemed to be focused on long-ranged attacks, which left him open for punishing close-range beatings. The electric brass knuckles had proven to be quite effective there. And despite his boast, Clayface still hadn't figured out how to counter his exploding shuriken. There was no telling how long that would last, but for now he needed to press his advantage and end the fight while he had enough energy to spare for Elliot. Clayface wouldn't be much of a problem after their next exchange. He was responding slower after the blows he had taken. Another couple of hits and he'd bring out the finishing blow.

Clayface slowly began rising up, a pained glare aimed at the vigilante. "That...hurt…" he growled.

Suddenly, the crater in Hagan's chest sunk in deeper before a large cannon barrel shot out, gleaming in the rays of the moonlight that flooded the building's floor. An instant later, the cannon fired with a loud, fiery blast. Batman's reflexes were the only thing that allowed him to dodge the speeding cannonball as he jumped to a side. He felt the large metal ball plow through his cape and yank him backwards by its force. He was spun around in place, leaving him a sitting duck for Hagan's next attack; fortunately, he just barely got his footing and pushed off the floor, not caring which direction he was going as long as it wasn't towards Hagan.

As it turn out, he was going in the opposite direction he originally dodged to. A moment later, another cannonball was announced as it flew by behind him. Legs pounding, Batman ran as fast as he could, another volley blasting a second later.

Reaching to his belt, he pulled out a few of smoke pellets. When Clayface fired another cannonball, it whizzing behind the vigilante like the last two, Batman threw the pellets at the floor between them, a cloud of smoke immediately exploding out.

And just as quickly as the smoke appeared, another cannonball came flying through it, parting the cloud and casting the harmless gas in two different directions. However, it had served its purpose, blocking the vigilante out of the monster's line-of-sight and allowing him to take cover behind one of the sheetrock-covered wooden frames. As he crouched behind it, body facing the wall and head tilted towards its edge, one of his feet standing in a small puddle of water formed by a leaky water pipe above him, he listened for his opponent's movements.

"Where are you?!" Clayface roared, stomping around manically. "You can't hide from me!"

Okay, that had been unexpected. It wasn't something the vigilante couldn't recover from, but now he had to think of a way to avoid the artillery shelling and land his next blow. It wasn't going to be less easy now, but he had a couple more options to play out.

Suddenly, the sheetrock behind him cracked and then shattered into tiny pieces. A large pincer closed down on the vigilante, who just barely shot his arms up to avoid having them pinned against his body. Unfortunately, that left his torso open to the intense pressure the pincer put on him, causing a scream of pain to rip out from his lips. Instinctively, his hands shot down and tried to pry open the pincer, which proved useless.

"I've got you now!" Clayface cheered. He forced his way through the remaining sheetrock and broken wood planks, causing the incomplete structure to crumbled into pieces. Sometime when the monster had been out of the dark-clad man's sight, he must've transformed his hands into lobster claws, something he was finding very inconvenient. Raising Batman up, Hagan held him at shoulder height, moving his other pincer hand above the vigilante's head and positioned the claw on either side of his skull.

"What did I tell ya? I can heal from anything! Your little shock gloves, your exploding bat-things; there's nothing I can't do!" Clayface gloated, squeezing harder on the vigilante's body and making him groan from the pain.

"And now, I'm going to crush your head like an empty beer can. Your brains are going to be squirted across the floor like pus from a pimple. It'll be amazing, especially when the media gets a picture of you and spreads it all over the news."

As the squeezing continued, Batman's head tilted up, a small, strained gasp escaping his lips. His eyes were shut tight, even as he kept trying to stop the claw from clinching further. His teeth were pressed tightly together, bared out for all to see. Cracking his eyes open, he then saw the water pipes above them, one of which was dripping water.

Eyes flicking down as he watched one drop fall, he saw it land on top of Hagan's arm, and much to his surprise, his arms seemed to further melt. He stared at it for a moment before he grunted out, "Water doesn't seem to agree with you."

"Huh?" Clayface seemed thrown off by that comment before he too noticed the water drip. Looking up, the former actor stared at the pipes overhead.

Which was a big opening for Batman. Leaning down as much as he could to get his head out of the looming pincer claw, he reached to his belt and pulled out a bat-shaped shuriken. Due to his leaning he couldn't simply throw the shuriken straight up. Instead, he thrust his arm out, twisted his body in Clayface's grasp as much as he could, and then threw the projectile.

The shuriken struck the pipe as planned, hitting it at a juncture of two pipes. This caused a spray of water to shoot out, hitting Hagan's arms and causing further melting. It was almost as if the water was dissolving the monster's skin, much two both men's surprise.

Clayface shrieked with fright, immediately jumping away from the water spray. This also caused him to pull back both of his arms and loosen his grip on the vigilante. Immediately, Batman took advantage of this as he punched the pincer claw with his electrified brass knuckles. Clayface flinched from the blow and released Batman, allowing him to drop to the floor, landing on his feet.

Jumping back to the water, Batman pulled out another shuriken, extending his arm out and putting the projectile under the spray. He only held it there for a second, and when he brought it back, he pressed it against one of his brass knuckles, squeezing his hand into a fist, and causing the electric current to flow onto the wet shuriken.

"Oh no you don't!" Clayface shouted as he lunged at him. Keeping still, Batman waited until the last second before dodging to the right as lobster claw flew at him, flinging his arm out and throwing the shuriken at point-blank range.

The results were instant. The electrified shuriken shocked Clayface, causing him to scream endlessly. His body reacted to the current, trembling and transforming seemingly at random. One moment Clayface was himself, then a squirming blob of clay. Then his human body appeared, spasming in pain before he changed into Thomas Elliot. Elliot gave way to Candice, and then Cobblepot, then surprisingly the vigilante himself.

That's when things got really bizarre as Hagan began changing into combinations of people. One moment his body would be Batman's while his head was Candice, one arm Hagan's, and the other arm and legs a black woman's. The next, he had the head and torso of Jim Gordon, but the legs of Cobblepot and the arms of a horse. All sorts of combinations flashed before Batman's eyes, some of which he couldn't even name.

However, it was quite clear that Clayface was not a threat any longer, so long as that shuriken stayed in place. Turning away, he left the monster as he slipped off the brass knuckles and placed them back into their pouch, making his way to a section of the building's floor where he noticed a opening to the floor above.

"Get...back here!" he heard Clayface shout at him. "This...isn't...over yet! It's...not over!"

The vigilante ignored him as he pulled out his grapple and fired it up. Hitting the retraction button, he shut up into the air and through the opening in the ceiling.

Even still, he could hear Clayface screaming after him. "I'll get you...for this! Batman! BATMAN!"

* * *

Several floors high up in the building, Batman found an entire floor designed slightly different from the rest of the building. The floor pattern was covered in large, alternating black and white tiles. It almost looked like a chessboard the longer he looked at it. There were concrete pillars every so often, providing support for the ceiling. Power tools and barrels of unknown substances were scattered about. It was as if the construction works had just stopped work for their lunch break would be back within the hour.

Silently, the vigilante walked around the various equipment, head pivoting about as he searched for Elliot. He could feel it in his gut, the man was somewhere close by. Everything was still, unbearably quiet. The only sound he could make out was his own breathing and the near-silent footsteps he made. He was carefully not to bump into anything, lest he give away his position, assuming that Elliot had yet to spot him. That was unlikely given the amount of effort and planning on the other's part. Elliot knew he was here and he was watching, waiting for his chance to strike.

Not that he would give it to him.

"You've arrived."

The voice echoed throughout the room, causing Batman to stop in his tracks. Instead he whirled away, cape whipping behind him as he tried to pinpoint where Elliot's voice came from. Unfortunately, all he could see was the same maze of equipment and the bright lights of the city through the incomplete walls.

"You've managed to get past my partner-in-crime. As unique as his abilities are, he lacks a sense of creativity himself, almost on par with one of the street thugs you're used to facing."

Batman ignored the jab. "You can come out, Elliot. It's just you and me, just the way you wanted it."

"The way I want it? It seems one-sided that you know me by name, but not the other way around. You know who I am, what I am capable of, what I am willing to do. From my name alone you could deduce my motivations for what I'm doing, couldn't you?"

"Revenge," the vigilante uttered as he began stepping around a stack of barrels. On one of them he noticed a _Flammable_ warning label. "On Wayne Enterprises, your own company for kicking you out." He began to scowl as he continued, "Removing the internal organs of your board members."

"I am curious, did you ever figure out what the meaning was behind those?"

"Gutless," he answered as the photo of Spacey appeared in his mind. "Lifeless, emotionless." Strong and Fairman respectively appeared and disappeared just as quickly. "With you as the common link to them, you wanted everyone to know just how empty you saw them, how they had nothing to offer and were willing to take it from those that did."

"Interesting analysis. Perhaps I should have hired you as my therapist. However, you are missing one. If you would look to your...left, I believe."

Batman stilled. So he was right, Elliot knew exactly where he was. He wasn't in the mood for games, not after these last few nights, but he had to play it if he wanted to bring the man in. Turning his head to his left, he a lone barrel, blood dripping down its sides. On top of it was a heart, slowly draining the last vestiges of fluid out of it. "Heartless," the vigilante growled in response.

"Exactly what Phil was. You remember Philip Freeman, yes? I wanted to save him until later, but then you had to come snooping around my home. There were a few others I wanted to try as well, brainless being an obvious one. Spineless, another. Unfortunately, I had to step things up a bit."

Fury began screaming in Batman's ears, the pounding of blood through blood vessels creating a constant drumming sound. "That's the last drop of blood you spill. I'm taking you down, Elliot, and you'll stay down."

"You're half-right on that first part. The rest of the board members are having their sins _burn_ them alive. I think you'll find them in hell, or as I like to call it, the basement."

It seemed as if everything around the vigilante froze. The very air stilled as he stopped breathing, his heart skipping a beat. The moment it restarted, Batman clinched his fists tightly. There was no doubt that Elliot meant every word he said. However, no matter how he put it, those board members were long dead before he got here. No chance to save them. No, Elliot wanted his mind distracted and he chose the perfect distraction.

Batman was not going to let him know he succeeded.

"You can't save everyone. Even you will know failure. Not everyone can have dual identities, can they? Take me for example. You know for a fact who I am even beneath the bandages of Hush. There is no duality there, unlike you. There's the Batman and there's...the man behind it. A mystery waiting to be solved. You look like a person who likes a good mystery."

He couldn't help it. He snorted, loudly. So this guy wanted to play mind games? Then they would play mind games. "Perhaps I do, but there's no mystery that surrounds you, Elliot. You're nothing more than a child throwing a temper tantrum because his favorite toy broke and no one stood by to replace it. You've gone on to blame anyone and everyone else for your own mistake. Like I said, nothing mysterious about that."

"I could say the same thing about you." From the shadows, Elliot stepped out, a gun in each hand at his sides. "Bruce."

Batman froze again, staring at the other man. It was fortunate his face remained stoic and not gaping wide open in astonishment. It still didn't take away that this evil, evil man knew who he was. A thousand and one thoughts raced through his head: how Elliot knew, when he discovered this, what he had done with the knowledge since his discovery. That thought led to even more possibilities where Elliot would reveal him for the entire city to know. He could think of countless ways for the other man to do so. Despite the growing horror he felt, he went into preservation mode. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You can't fool me, Bruce. Even from here I could see you freeze up. You gave yourself away, back at my house. You are, after all, always six steps behind."

That confirmed it. The hesitation he saw wasn't Elliot stunned by his own words, but that he recognized just who was saying them. Damn it. "So now what?" he growled lowly.

"I told you once that you weren't sorry. Well, it times for me to make you sorry, 'Batman'." Elliot carelessly tossed his alter-ego's name, mocking it in all of his arrogance. "You know, it took me awhile to think of this, but I think you'll appreciate it all the more coming from someone just like you. You and me, we live through facades. You as Bruce Wayne and I as Thomas Elliot. Surely you noticed that lonely feeling even as you were surrounded by hundreds at those charity balls and parties we both attended. How it seemed like we were the only real ones there. But now, we are real. Wayne and Elliot don't exist anymore, not here. Now, we are Batman...and Hush."

He hated to admit it, but Elliot...Hush was right about one thing. That isolation he mentioned, which gnawed at him as he rubbed shoulders and pretended to be normal, was ever-present. Yet, whenever his childhood friend wandered over, it was as if all the bodies faded away and they could be themselves, if only for a moment.

However, that's where the similarities ended between them. His real self fought for others while Hush fought for himself. It was a difference between them that spanned a canyon. And for that, the vigilante felt his resolve hardened. "So you want us to be real," he stated more than asked.

"As a sign of respect from one colleague to another." A smirk snuck out from beneath the bandages.

"Then I have no respect to give. You're not worth it and never were." Batman's head tilted down, the shadows of the room covering his mouth and only allowed the whites of his lens to glare at Hush. "You're insanity ends tonight."

Hush scowled and growled, "In your dreams."

A flurry of movement erupted from the two men, the flash of metal gleaming in the moonlight. Hush shot his arms up, aiming both of his guns right at the dark-clad vigilante even as Batman took a step forward, leaning down as his arms lashed out, sending two spinning shuriken. The explosion of gunpowder igniting rang out as Hush's guns fired, bullets screaming through the air, passing the shuriken as each went in opposite directions.

The bullets flew over Batman's head due to his semi-crouch. Watching as the bat-shaped shuriken arced through the air, he noticed the bandaged man changed his aim. That was all he needed to see as he charged forward. Another firing of his guns, one after the other, and Hush shot the shuriken out of the air before they could hit him.

Before he could change his target again, Batman rammed his shoulder into his opponent's midsection, arms wrapping around him as the vigilante tackled him. The two men flew backwards until Hush's back slammed into one of the concrete pillars.

However, before Batman could make another move, Hush brought both of his arms down, slamming the butts of his handguns on the vigilante's shoulders. He let out a cry of pain as his knees buckled down from the blows. The next thing he knew, Hush swung his right out and then back, hitting the dark-clad man on the side of his head with the side of the gun. The hit snapped Batman's head to a side, spit flying from his mouth.

Already he knew Hush wanted to get some distance between them so he could use his handguns—his only real advantage in this fight. Their proximity made pointing the weapons too awkward for a good shot. Yet, Batman was not going to give him the opportunity to shoot again. With his left arm, he brought it up in front of his chest and swung it out, the triangle blades on his gauntlets striking the gun and Hush's wrist simultaneously. A cry ripped from the bandaged man's lips as he lost his grip on his weapon and let it go clattering to the floor.

However, the bandaged man's recovery time was extremely quick. In response, he swung his other gun through the air and rammed the butt of it into the other side of Batman's head, against causing it to snap in the opposite direction. Teeth clenched, the vigilante countered by slamming his left fist into Hush's exposed midsection.

He kept sending punch after punch to the same spot, knocking the wind out of Hush's lungs. Yet, from the corner of his eye, he saw Hush raise his gun-holding hand up to send another blow.

Not going to happen.

In a flash, Batman sent up his right arm, blocking the bandaged man's attack. Then with his left fist, he drove it onto Hush's chin, uppercutting him and causing the back of his foe's head to bash against the pillar behind him.

With a growl, Batman grabbed Hush by the collar of his coat and leaned back, twisting his torso as he lifted the bandaged man off the floor and threw him through the air. Hush flew helplessly until he crashed into a stack of barrels, knocking them out of their stacked alignment and collapsing on top of the man.

With a heavy breath, Batman began to stroll to the fallen barrels. Knowing his old friend, his first move once he got out from underneath those metal containers was to try and shoot him again. With a hand at his belt, he slipped out another shuriken and held it at the ready.

With a loud roar, Hush exploded out of the fallen barrels, knocking some further away as he rose onto his feet. Just as the vigilante predicted, he was moving his last gun to point at him. Casually, he threw the shuriken and watched as it collided with Hush's wrist, causing him to scream in pain and send the weapon flying away.

However, that was when Hush pulled something else out with his other hand. Stopping, Batman stared at what appeared to be a detonator, the bandaged man's thumb hovering over the red button on its top.

And then he pressed it.

An explosion erupted right next to Batman, throwing him off his feet and sending him flying to his right. He crashed to the floor, ears ringings and sight blurred. Disoriented, he began to push himself onto his hands and feet. His hearing was gone, that incessant ringing blocking everything out. Fortunately, he could still see as his lens protected his eyes from the sudden flash of light. If it wasn't for the force of the blast, he might have mistaken it for a flashbang grenade.

Still, he felt dizzy and his stomach was trying to force out everything inside of it to counterbalance the feeling. Homeostasis at work. The vigilante ignored it though as he forced his head up.

Only to see the bottom of Hush's boot as it slammed into his face. The force of the blow snapped Batman backwards as he let out a sharp cry. His backward momentum stopped as Hush grabbed one of his cowl's horns and held tight to it. With his other hand, he threw a punch that rammed into the vigilante's face. Though it hurt, it had the unexpected benefit of clearing his mind of the nausea he was feeling. By the time Hush had draw his fist back to throw another punch, he shot out an arm and blocked it

With his feet back under him, Batman powered forward and up, letting out a war cry as he drove Hush back. The bandaged man seemed surprised for a moment, but then held his ground, grabbing onto Batman's arms as the two of them pushed against each other with all their strength. It was like to bulls crossing horns, locked in battle of wills and power as they strained against each other. This was a stalemate that would last until one of them gave out and promptly leave themselves wide open for a vicious beating.

And then, Hush stepped to aside and released his hold on the dark-clad man. Surprised, Batman went stumbling forward until he ran into a pile of barrels. Using his hands, he braced himself as collided with them, stopping his stumble. He snarled as he whipped around to face Hush.

Which he then came to a sudden stop. In his hand, Hush held another detonator. He looked nonchalant as he looked at it before he glanced to the vigilante. Batman barely got his arms up to protect his face as the bandaged man pressed the button, the barrels in front of him exploding and sending him flying across the room.

Batman's flight came to a sudden stop when his back crashed into a concrete pillar. He wasn't sure if he cried out or not, but he definitely felt the ground when he collapsed onto it. He couldn't make heads or tails about anything around him as everything seemed to slow down, dragging across his sight in slow motion. He was faintly aware of a crack on his left lens, damaging the video feed in that eye. He still had his right one, but he wasn't sure if that meant anything. His body felt battered and drained and he could hardly move it. A mental fog seemed to have descended onto his mind, slowing down his thinking process. Was this a concussion? Maybe...maybe…


	26. One Step Ahead

Something hit him, he wasn't sure what. In all honesty, Batman didn't really feel much other than his head moving to a side. A wetness gathered on his lips and seemed to disappeared by his sudden move, his eyes catching drops of fluid flying through the air and onto the floor. His head was then forced to the other side to watch again the drops of wetness...red wetness fall to the floor.

However, the haze he seemed to be in was clearing up, even as his head turned yet again to the other side. Things were speeding up, and the side of his face was beginning to hurt.

"—does this feel?!" Another blow. "How does it feel to be helpless?!" Pain in his gut. "Have everything taken away from you?!"

The voice started off deep, slow, and far away. But with every word it grew louder, faster, and angrier until he realized it was Hush.

An instant later, he jerked his head to a side, just in time for Hush to slam his fist against the concrete pillar behind the vigilante.

An animalistic scream tore from Hush's mouth as he stumbled backwards, grabbing his hurt fist with his other hand. Slowly, Batman forced himself to get on his feet, a hand on the pillar as he used it to keep his balance. The vigilante stared down his opponent as he hissed loudly.

In any other situation, Batman would've charged. He would've pounded Hush into the floor until he was just a bloody, quivering mass. However, his body was wobbly, his head muddled with the after effects of a concussion. He didn't even trust himself to take a step forward.

That still didn't mean he didn't have other options.

Reaching to the back of his belt, he pulled out his grapple. Raising it up, the dark-clad man pointed it right at Hush, who had managed to tear his attention away from his aching hand and glared with murderous rage at the vigilante. With a press of a button, the grapple fired, the claw slamming into Hush's chest and launching him off his feet as he went flying across the room, dropping to the floor a moment later.

Hitting the retraction button, Batman began to gasp for air. _C'mon, get it together, Bruce_.

Suddenly, he heard a gunshot and his grapple was ripped out of his grasp. Hissing in pain, he looked up to see Hush, lying on the floor, holding one of his guns up and aiming it right at the dark-clad man. "It pays to be ambidextrous," the bandaged man growled menacingly.

It wasn't the most dignified walk, but immediately Batman swung himself around around the pillar, wobbling with each step he took. He barely got around the concrete barrier as Hush began unloading his gun, pieces of the pillar exploding off as the bullets blew through its sides.

Reaching to a front pocket, Batman pulled out a small white, plastic ampule—smelling salt. Using both hands, he held the little bag beneath his nose and used his thumbs to apply pressure to the middle of it. An audible crack was heard and a horrible scent shot up into his nostrils as he took in a deep breath. He nearly gagged on the smelling salt, but it provided him with the momentary clearing of his mind. It wasn't the best thing for a concussion, but he needed his mind to be alert again, which he most certainly felt at the moment.

It was then he noticed the lack of gunfire. Before he could even think of a possibility for the lack of flying bullets, a large metal chain suddenly flew around the pillar, wrapping around his neck and disappearing on the other side of the concrete barrier. Batman shot his hands up and grabbed onto the chair just as he felt it tighten down.

"Got you now," Hush grunted as he increased the pressure on the dark-clad man's neck. "No windows to break out of this time!"

A choked gasp came from the vigilante as he gave it everything he had to hold off asphyxiation. The pillar was too big, so he couldn't reach around and attack at Hush. All he could do was fight the pressure of the chain against his throat. Damn it, he needed to get at Hush and he needed to do it...do it…

Releasing the chain with one hand, he dropped it to his belt. Pulling out a shuriken, he began to tap on the body. Pausing only to let another strained cry out, Batman gritted his teeth and finished inputting the command. Blindly, he threw the shuriken back behind him, his arm twisting awkwardly against the pillar as he did so. The chain seemed to slacken for a moment before he heard Hush triumphantly gloat, "Missed."

Batman couldn't help it as a smirk appeared on his face. Even now, the shuriken was slowing down its flight, turning in midair, and flying back towards them. Faintly he could pick up the sound of the projectile speeding up as it whirled through the air. He then heard Hush's cry out in pain, followed by its silence as the bat-shaped shuriken collided with the back of the bandaged man's head and forced his forehead to bash into the pillar, cutting the shout short.

Instantly, the chain went slack and Batman greedily and audibly sucked in as much air as he could. He then tightened his hold on the chain and flung it forward, throwing it across the room.

This was it; now was the time to put an end to this fight. With a feral growl, he swung himself around the pillar, seeing Hush clasping his head as he had taking a couple wobbly steps away from the thick concrete pole. Launching himself like a demon, Batman rained down blows on the bandaged man, fists colliding with face, chest, stomach, and shoulder. Hush's body jerked all over from each blow, spit and blood flying from his mouth amidst interrupted grunts of pain.

So focused was the vigilante on the beating, he never noticed Hush suddenly swing a fist forward, slamming it into his ribs. A sharp, burning pain ripped into his chest, stopping Batman in his tracks as he let out a choked gasp of pain. He buckled backwards as he clutched at his side.

_They still weren't healed,_ was his first thought as he gasped for air. The second was how his legs were kicked out from under him, causing him to crash down on his back against the floor. The final one was of Hush landing on top of him, his legs straddling the vigilante as he held a scalpel up against his neck.

"This wasn't how I planned this to be" the bandaged man angrily hissed. "I wanted you completely at my mercy, weak, broken, defenseless. But of course, you couldn't do that for me, could you? _Could you?!_ Just like you wouldn't stand up for me at that damn board meeting." He paused to suck in a deep breath of air, calming himself. "But this will have to do."

Batman couldn't respond. He just laid there, head tiled up and away from Hush, staring blankly as he began to feel the sharp metal of the scalpel blade pierce his armor. Faintly he could feel the muddled cloud of his concussion fight to overwhelm him again, the smelling salt's affect beginning to end. He hated to give in and say he was beaten, but right now he was having a hard time focusing his disjointed thoughts. If it were for the sudden change of a shadow, he'd be able to concentrate...

Wait, it moved again. Whatever it was, it was very large and if he wasn't mistaken...misshapen...

All the while, Hush continued his speech. "You here, dying. Alone. You're used to that feeling, aren't you? You're so used to it, you cower in fear from it. I can see it as clear as day." The bandaged man's voice then took on a more sadistic tone. "But don't be scared, you won't be feeling that soul-wrenching fear won't be long. I still have others to play with. Like Alfie. It's been a long time, hasn't it? Oh, and Gordon. I still have to finish up destroying him if only because it would hurt you even more that you couldn't help him either, just like all the times he's helped you." There was a pause before Hush's voice filled with realization. "That's right, doesn't he have a daughter too? What's her name again? Ah, yes, _Barbara_."

The vigilante ignored the barbs, as cruel as they were. Instead, he kept looking at the growing mass. It was twisting and turning, looking for something. Someone. A flash of clay-colored skin told him just who and what it was.

"So you see, you won't be alone for long. I'll be sending you plenty of company. They can join you...and Mommy…"

_...pearls rained down on the grimy asphalt, clattering as they spilled…_

"...and Daddy…"

..._twin gunshots blasted through the night, one after the other…_

"You'll tell them I said 'hi', won't you?"

Life raced through Batman body, filling his arms and legs. "You always have to be six steps ahead, don't you?" he spat out.

"That's right!" Hush roared shrilly. "I'm always six steps ahead! Always! Me! Not you, you spoiled brat!"

Clayface's form stilled and twisted towards them. Tilting his head down, Batman looked Hush in the eye. "That's a shame, Tommy. Because all I have to be is one!"

Grabbing Hush's coat collar, he pushed up, forcing the bandaged man up into the air. A roar filled the building floor, causing Hush to jerk his head up, just in time for a column of bricks to come rushing through the air and slam into his face. The force of the blow ripped the man out of Batman's grasp, sending him flying through the air.

* * *

Wind buffeted and lashed out around Hush as he was thrown backwards and off his prey. His bandaged face pulsed with pain, which brought him out of the daze that had overcome his mind immediately at impact.

With that clarity came a dawn of horror as the man realized that he was no longer within the confines of the building, but hover just above the abyss below.

He blinked as gravity took hold of him and he began to plummet.

All his plans, everything that he had worked for and had lost, all of it flashed through his mind as he whipped his head around, from left to right. The ends of his trenchcoat buffeted about him as the air rushed around him. Below the torn up earth was racing to meet with him, the seconds bringing him closer and closer.

"This can't happen!" Hush screamed wildly. "It can't end this way! It doesn't end like—"

* * *

The column of bricks retreated above Batman, transforming into the more malleable arm of Hagan's. Rolling onto his stomach, he slowly pushed himself onto his hands and knees, his weary body protesting the whole way. "C'mon, you bastard," he growled to himself. "Get up. It isn't over yet. You have to get up. One more time. One last time."

His "pep" talk got him back on his feet. Part of him wished it hadn't as he saw Clayface marching towards him.

"_BATMAN!_" Clayface roared, sounding more monster than man. Between now and their last confrontation, Hagan had gotten much, _much_ bigger. He was practically touching the ceiling of the room with his head, causing him to hunch forward. He had also grown four new appendages, two of which were extending out of his shoulders and the other two from his sides beneath his arms. The top two arms had a sword and mace formed as hands while the bottom two were a lobster pincer and an axe blade.

This wasn't going to be fun.

While he would've have preferred electrifying another shuriken, it was obvious that Clayface had found a way to remove it, or at the very least wait out the charge. Considering what the vigilante knew of the shapeshifter's ability, it was likely the electricity excited the monster's body and further transformed him into this. Another shock was not the way to go here.

With a howl, Clayface lunged forward, shooting out one of his normal hands out to grab him. Instantly, Batman dashed to his left, avoiding the grab and the subsequent mace smashing the ground a second later.

Pulling out a shuriken, one of his last ones he noted, Batman pressed its center with his thumb as he leapt onto one of the remaining stacks of barrels. Pushing off, he soared off the barrels as Clayface closed in on him, swing his axe from side to side over the metal containers.

The moment he landed, Batman threw the projectile at the barrels, seeing its sharp end stick in one of them. A moment later, it exploded, which caused the barrels to explode as well, flames enveloping Clayface as he roared in pain.

Ducking down, Batman used the construction equipment and pillars as cover as he did his best to remain out of sight. He needed a couple moments without interruption, otherwise this fight was not going to end well for him. Reaching to the back of his belt, he pulled out two pieces of metal and connected them to each other. He heard an audible click as they were successfully inserted. He then pulled out another piece and attached it to one end. Another piece was quickly followed and soon he was staring at Victor Fries' freeze gun.

Reaching to his belt one last time, he pulled out a deep blue, shining orb—the gun's power source. He was about to insert it into the freeze gun when one of the forklifts went flying through the air by him. Turning around, Clayface burst into sight, a crushed barrel in his pincer hand and a chunk of debris in a normal hand. He bellowed and then threw the twisted barrel, to which Batman dove to a side to dodge.

Unfortunately, his body was much more fatigued than he had hoped. The moment he landed on his stomach on the floor, he lost his grip on the orb. It shot out of his hand, skipping across the floor until it slowed into a roll. It kept rolling, heading for one of the openings in the building's wall.

Eyes wide, Batman scrambled for the orb, but watched in horror as it disappeared over the edge. Even worse, Clayface was looming over him, the mace arm held high above his head. Reacting, Batman rolled towards the mud monster, barely dodging the mace as it crushed the floor next to him. Forcing himself onto his feet, the vigilante shot between Clayface's legs, looking to put some distance between them; however, Hagan spun around faster than he anticipated, the elbow of one of his arms slamming into the side of his head and sending him flying across the room.

He crashed to the floor in a heap, groaning as his beaten body screamed at him. Turning his head to look behind him, he saw Hagan stomping towards him, an animalistic laugh bellowing out of his mouth.

It was then he noticed his discarded grapple, its cable laying around unspooled. Instantly, the vigilante snatched it up, hitting the retraction button, and sending the cable flying back into the grapple. On his feet, Batman took off running again, heading towards one of the openings in the wall. Behind him he could hear Clayface storming after him, roaring once more.

Reaching the opening, the vigilante dove out of it, twisting his body around so he could look skyward. Raising up the grapple, he fired it towards the roof, watching as the claw flew through the air until it collided with an anchor point. Immediately the line went taut and he found himself stopping in midair. The sudden stop soon caused him to swing towards the building, where he stuck out his legs to brace himself for landing. The moment his feet touched the building, he turned his body to a side and began running along the wall, holding the grapple gun in one hand as his other pumped along side him, swinging the freeze gun back and forth.

Suddenly, clay-colored tentacles burst wildly out of the opening the vigilante jumped through. More began busting through finished walls, creating a ruined trail as the wildly lashing tentacles gave chase after the dark-clad man.

Batman continued to pump his legs as fast as he could, running to stay ahead of the approaching tentacle arms. Up ahead and a couple stories below him, he saw an unfinished landing jutting out from the building, wooden frames comprising makeshift walls and a ceiling. Glancing back and seeing Clayface's closing arms, he looked back and mentally prepared himself for what he knew he was about to do.

Just before the tentacles reached him, Batman released his hold on the grapple. Gravity immediately seized him and he fell through the air, his momentum allowing him to continue drifting forward. He closed in on the unfinished portion of the building and braced himself for the impending collision.

He felt the wood snap and shatter as his body crashed into the frames. Pain battered him as the vigilante slammed into the floor, broken wooden boards falling on top of him. "Uhhhh," he groaned as he laid there. Not one of his better ideas, but he didn't really have many other options. After this, he was going to need a _long_ vacation—assuming he made it out alive.

As Batman shook off his daze, a beam of light caught his eye. Jerking his head up, he saw the blue orb lying close by, resting on top of an open bag of cement powder. Quickly, the dark-clad man scrambled to it, grabbing the orb as soon as he reached it. Getting onto his feet, the vigilante remained crouched as he held up the freeze gun. Inserting the orb, he closed its compartment and held the weapon before him.

A sudden crash behind him caused him to jerk his head around, remaining in his pose as his cape enveloped him. Clayface had caught up with him, crashing through the ceiling further into the building, his mouth an open maw. He was moving fast, stomping towards the vigilante like a monster possessed.

Batman harden his stare. It was time to end this.

Whipping around, his cape billowing behind him as he remained crouched, he pointed the freeze gun right at Clayface and squeezed the trigger. The familiar blaring of the gun filled his ears as the blue beam of light fired, colliding with Clayface's chest. Instantly, ice began forming over Hagan's chest, growing up around his shoulders and down his legs. His movements began to slow, even as he roared loudly. Even as the ice enveloped his head, he sent his axe-hand flying towards Batman, fully intent on beheading him.

Transfixed, Batman watched as the blade arched through the air towards him. He didn't have it in him to dodge any more and faced his approaching doom head on. Time slowed for him, even as he saw ice crystals work their way down the arm and crawl their way to the blade. He couldn't hear himself breathe nor feel the beating of his heart in his chest. In fact, he honestly could have said he felt at peace as odd as that seemed.

And then the axe stopped mere inches away from him, ice completely surrounding it. Batman let out the breath he was holding, panting rather loudly as he released his hold on the weapon's trigger.

Tearing his eyes away from the giant blade, Batman looked to the rest of Clayface and found a giant ice statue of him. The ice had to be several inches thick from what he could tell. Something told him that this time, Clayface wouldn't be going anywhere.

* * *

A quick note on the smelling salt, I highly doubt that would help with a concussion. Pretty sure many of y'all feel the same way, but for the sake of artistic liberty, I ask you for a slight bit of suspension of disbelief in this case. I kinda wrote myself into a corner at that part and having a concussed Batman fighting was a sure fire way to end the fight in a way I really didn't want to. So, in the name of Ed Wood, just roll with it.


	27. My Demons

**Take me high and I'll sing**

**Oh you make everything**

**Okay, okay, okay ('kay, okay, okay)**

**We are one and the same**

**Oh you take all of the pain**

**Away, away, away ('way, away, away)  
**

**Save me if I become  
**

**My demons**

**-My Demons by Starset**

* * *

"_Welcome to Channel 6 News with Jack Ryder. I'm Jack Ryder and here are the top stories for the evening._

"_Late last night, police were called out to multiple bombings in Gotham. One resulted in the arrest of famed gangster, Oswald Cobblepot, also known as the Penguin. First responders found him tied up outside a burning warehouse where an arms deal went sour. It is not known how or why the deal went south, but sources within the police department believe the the city's vigilante, the Batman, was involved in the apprehension._

"_In the second bombing, it was discovered that former Elliot Pharmaceuticals CEO, Dr. Thomas Elliot, was killed outside his family's latest research facility. Construction is currently on hold as police investigate the scene. It is believe the late Dr. Elliot fell to his death in the early hours of the morning. Police have been yet to comment as to why Dr. Elliot was at the scene of a bombing, or to the circumstances leading to his death. However, along with the doctor's body, a startling discovery was made inside the construction site."_

Bullock gave a loud whistle. "You don't see something like this everyday."

He had been given descriptions, but nothing could really prepare him for this. So this was the monster than Essen had been trying to track down. Ugly bastard. Ugly and frozen.

They had been alerted to a, quote unquote, commotion at this place. Lots of crashing noises and explosions. Considering the time of night, that would wake anybody up. The first thing the sergeant saw when he arrived among all the squad cars converging on the place was some guy in a trenchcoat and bandages lying a pool of his own blood. From a glance, he couldn't get a clue about the guy, but that was going to have to wait until they got the place secured and forensics did their job. Then they could figure out who this guy was. Bullock was betting that it was a guy with a lot of plastic surgery or something.

Yet, it was a lucky find to find mudboy, frozen as he was. Was it just him or did this guy look like a frozen pile of shit?

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Essen nearby. "Hey, Essen, is this the guy you've been looking for?"

"Looks about right." The woman peered closely at the frozen monster. "Is it just me or does that hand look like an axe?"

He hadn't wanted to say anything first, in case he had been seeing things. "What do you want to do with it? Let it thaw out first?"

The lieutenant shook her head. "No. If the statements from the attack on Wayne Enterprises are to be believed, we might want to keep him like this until we can figure out what we're up against."

"So keep him on ice, huh? I think we got a guy up at Blackgate who could use a cellmate."

"I don't think now is the time for jokes, Bullock." Essen holstered her gun as she walked around their frozen statue of poo. Heh, this was pretty fun. What other words could he use for the word "crap."

"Before we decide where he goes, we should get him somewhere cold, as soon as possible," Essen continued. "I don't know how long it'll stay like this and I don't want to take the chance."

"Right, so we look for the nearest walk-in refrigerator," Bullock said dismissively.

"Freezer preferably," Essen corrected.

"So how are we going to get this shitcicle out of here?" Okay, that wasn't a good one. Shitcicle? Really? He was better than that!

"Shitcicle?" the blonde woman repeated, looking at him like most people did when he allegedly said something stupid.

"Sounded better in my head. Sue me," Bullock shrugged. "Hey Montoya. I know you're back there. Can you go find someplace we can stick Frosty the Shitman until we know what to do with him?"

"Bullock, I swear…" Essen groaned exasperatedly.

"Hey, now that was a good one." he argued.

"How do you deal with him?" Essen turned towards his rookie, and was it just him or did she look like she was pleading?"

Montoya shrugged. "I deal with him like I deal with all men. I ignore half of what he says and filter out the bullshit."

"Okay, now that was a good one," he remarked, chuckling. Then what she said struck him. "Hey, half the time?"

"I'm going to locate a freezer. Too busy to talk," Montoya excused herself.

"That's one way to handle it," Essen remarked.

"_Police are not commenting on what was found and multiple calls to the GCPD have as of yet gone unanswered. In regards to Dr. Elliot, evidences has been presented to the GCPD by an anonymous citizen that has implicated the late doctor in many incidences across Gotham, including the street riots from last months that embarrassed the police department and increase city-wide support for the Batman._

"_Calls to the GCPD concerning the evidence and the implications surrounding Dr. Elliot have gone unanswered._

"_In other news, the charges against Commissioner James Gordon have been dropped. Gordon, who was being charged with bribery and criminal activity, had this to say at his hearing."_

By now it was a foregone conclusion where the hearing was going; Gordon was not going to be losing his job and wouldn't have to worry about an insufferable IA officer bugging him anymore. By now, the picture of him shaking hands with the Batman had been all but forgotten, overlooked by the capture of the deformed Matt Hagan, the death of Thomas Elliot, and the collapse of Elliot Pharmaceuticals.

Apparently, all that was needed to forget about his problems was a juicier story. Tales of face creams transforming people into monsters tended to do that. The board members of Elliot Pharmaceuticals, who had spent so much time obstructing the efforts of the Hagan investigation, had paid for it in their own blood. The burnt remains of the survivors were discovered at the Elliot crime scene and on top of their financial troubles, the corporation was starting to look at bankruptcy. The loss of the man who was involved with the transforming cream was the last straw for it.

As for the hearing that people were missing, it was pretty much assured that the allegations were falling through. Forbes was discredited and any evidence of wrongdoing by Gordon were so insignificant that it was starting to make the prosecutor look bad.

But that wasn't enough for Gordon. No, he needed to make a statement, one to all his detractors that he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. So he had requested his lawyer to put him on the stand because he wanted this on the record.

Naturally, Baylor advised against this. Sound council and all. Any defense lawyer would advise against taking the stand. The choice was ultimately his and he made it. Now here he was, on the witness stand, facing Baylor for the first time.

"Commissioner Gordon, there has been a lot of accusations thrown at you recently," Baylor began, clearly choosing his words carefully. Saying the wrong thing could do damage, even at this point. "Most of it seems to stem from this photo published in the Gotham Star. Would you like to explain yourself?"

Gordon cleared his throat, buying a little time to clear his thoughts. "That picture, the one that has gotten me in trouble recently, when I look at it I see a man shaking hands with another man. More than that, I see a father shaking hands with the man who saved the life of his daughter. Call him what you will—a vigilante, a criminal, an outlaw—but on that night, that man saved my daughter.

"I admit, I could have done a better job that night of preventing the role of a commissioner from crossing over with that of a father. But that night, all I knew was that a madman had kidnapped my daughter and was threatening to harm her if I didn't do what he said. I wasn't going to let that man get away with this; I wasn't going to let him intimidate me from doing my job as I am supposed to. I was going to go after him and chase him to the ends of the earth if he harmed one hair on my daughter.

"I didn't have to do that. The vigilante Batman intervened and broke that bastard's nose. He rescued my daughter and brought her back to me so when that picture was taken, I was not the Commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department—I was a father thanking another man for saving the life of my child. It was a moment that has been captured by an eager photographer, but even now I do not regret that moment.

"However, the investigation that has happened afterwards has proven to be not only a waste of time, but also a waste of resources and taxpayer money. For the past few weeks I have had a man look into every single nook and cranny of my life and when he couldn't find anything, falsified evidence. I know there are many in the department who do not like me or how I do things, but would you like things to go back to the way they were? When organized crime had a stranglehold on the department so tight it took a lunatic with a freeze gun to pry them apart? Does the city want to go back to days where the police were not any different from the common thugs you can find on the streets? Or does the city want for a police force to serve the city and not the person with the biggest checkbook? For the police to serve the citizens of Gotham and not the mobsters.

"Because it would be easier, wouldn't it? To let law enforcement do what it wants because it's more convenient. Because it takes attention away from those in power, from the politicians who like the old way better to the criminals that spat in the face of decency, who don't want there to be any change. Who would waste time going after the people who do their jobs while they don't do theirs.

"I wasn't not looking to become commissioner, but because I was appointed this job, I am going to do it because that is what I'm supposed to do. Because the city of Gotham trusts me to do my job. This investigation has not only undermined me, but has at times prevented me from doing my job. Now, when I leave here today, I am going straight back to my office where I am going to continue to do my job until I am told otherwise.

"You can do with me what you will, but when we live in a city where we have people being frozen into ice blocks and other becoming mud monsters, perhaps there should be something that people can look to and find comfort in, even if it's a man with a badge who is sworn to protect and defend you from the monsters in this city. They may not be a man dressed like a bat, but they should be able to make you feel better, safer than make you afraid.

"If corruption is what you want to go back to, fine, but so long as I remain commissioner, I will fight every step of the way to prevent that. Now, if there is no more questions, there is a job I need to get back to."

"_The Commissioner left the courthouse soon after, leaving in his wake some difficult questions for Mayor Armand Krol. It is well-known throughout the city that Mayor Krol was not a fan of Commissioner Gordon and was seeking to have him replaced should he have been indicted. The case against the commissioner largely hinged on the testimony of Internal Affairs officer, Lieutenant Jack Forbes. It was soon discovered that Lt. Forbes had falsified evidence against the commissioner and is currently under investigation by IA._

"_And now, we'll start with our top story of the hour: the arrest of Oswald Cobblepot. Joining me on today's panel, we have…"_

The chirping of the bats echoed throughout the cave. It was a common enough sound as the flying rodents returned from a night of feeding.

Yet Bruce ignored it. The stone chair was getting its use as he slouched in it, his arms limply lying on the armrests. He could still see Hush...Elliot's broken body as he lay on the cold ground. A blood spatter surrounded him, forming an ill-shaped circle. There wasn't much that could be done for him or the remains of the Elliot board members in the basement. As promised, there were only charred bodies, faces permanently frozen in twisted agony.

It was a sick feeling to know they roasted while he was fighting for his life.

Flashes of his childhood flooded his mind. Every instance where he saw Elliot act out in anger was a reminder of what lay inside the redhead's mind. They were early signs, warnings that the dark-haired man should have caught. If he had, perhaps none of this would have happened. Perhaps his friend would have gotten the help he needed to stay sane and not become that twisted specter in that construction site.

So lost was he in thought that he never noticed Alfred appear behind him. It wasn't until the butler gently coughed, clearing his throat, that Bruce lazily turned his head to the older man.

_I still have others to play with. Like Alfie. It's been a long time, hasn't it?_

"Elliot's gone," the dark-haired man said emotionlessly, turning his head back to again gaze out into the cave.

"My condolences, Master Bruce."

"He threatened you," the younger man continued, as if he hadn't heard the butler. "He threatened everyone, just because you knew me. And he was eager to follow through. I don't...I don't understand. How could someone like that slip right beneath my nose."

"He was your friend," Alfred gently reminded him. "You wanted to see the best in him."

Bruce snorted. "My friend. My friends don't kill people." His voice began to raise as anger poured out of him. "My friends don't start street wars that leave body counts in their wake. My friends—"

He lost steam. Despite Bruce indignation, he did have a friend that had done all of that and worse. And the most alarming part was he didn't intend to stop. Had he not died this night, he would still be out there, plotting more mayhem and death.

Drained, he spoke, "How could I have missed this?"

Before he knew it, Alfred was kneeling before him, a comforting hand resting on his arm. "We all missed it. Master Thomas was a troubled youth and an even more troubled man. There is no questioning this. But he hid his demons well, even from the people he was closest with."

"But I should've known," Bruce answered back, desperation in his voice. "I could've helped him. I could've—"

Alfred shook his head. "No, no you couldn't. You cannot blame yourself for the faults of others. Even if you had noticed what ailed Master Thomas, there was not much you could do. He had to be the one who sought help and no matter how much you tried, if he didn't want the help, then he would have refused it. He would've grown to resent you, no matter your intentions. Sometimes, some people are beyond helping."

Bruce processed this. And yet, his treacherous mind turned back to that construction site. "When we fought," he started, "he said that Bruce Wayne and Thomas Elliot were fakes, that our real selves were Batman and Hush."

"Which is a load of poppycock, if I may say so, Sir," Alfred immediately reprimanded. "You were Bruce Wayne long before you adopted the Batman persona, much like Master Thomas before he became Hush. Perhaps you allow yourself certain liberties when you dress up at night, but it will never change that you are Bruce Wayne, always and forever."

The corner of his mouth twitched up. Though Elliot had been right about that sense of loneliness, so was Alfred. Batman was only a creation, an extension of himself, no more, no less.

"And if you ever think differently again, I'll box your ear, Master Bruce."

A full-blown grin grew across the younger man's face. "I think I'm a bit old for that, old friend."

"Bully, Sir, you are never too old for a reminder," Alfred retorted as he stood up, holding his hands behind him as he looked expectantly down on the billionaire.

"A reminder, huh? Of what?"

"That no matter how old, or wise you become, there will always be someone to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours."

"Which explains the multiple times you've hit me."

"Oh, those weren't to teach you a lesson, Sir. I've dullied your bottom as an infant, so I am entitled to some liberties with your discipline."

"Whatever you say, old friend."

* * *

With that, the Sixth Move is complete. My co-author, Anonymous Void, and I would like to thank everyone that read, reveiwed, and enjoyed the story. There were a few things we tried with this story, particularly the different narrative flow of the Penguin. Originally I was only going to go with the British spelling with the words, such as humour and favour. Then came in the cockney accent in the dialogue, which then found its way into the narrative. I have to admit, when I first wrote it I enjoyed it, but after editing it, I think I'll be keeping the accents only in the dialogue. The accented narrative started taking away from the story, I think, at least I started losing interest in the chapter when I went over and I can imagine it had the same affect on all of your readers as well. Consider this lesson learned.

Of course, this is only the second story in the series planned. Writing has already commenced on the third one, and I have to admit I'm feeling good things about it. It's called City of a Thousand Laughs. There's your clue as to the villain lol.

Until next time,

ShadowMajin


End file.
